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THE 
STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Edited  by  John  McClure 


BY  JOHN  McCLURE 
AIRS  AND  BALLADS 


THE 

STAG'S  "HORNBOOK 

Edited   by  John  McClure 


New  York 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 

MCMXVIII  d 


To 
H.  L.  MENCKEN 


THE  BARDS  WE  QUOTE 

Whene'er  I  quote  I  seldom  take 
From  bards  whom  angel  hosts  environ; 
But  usually  some  damned  rake 
Like  Byron. 

Of  Whittier  I  think  a  lot, 
My  fancy  to  him  often  turns; 
But  when  I  quote  'tis  some  such  sot 
As  Burns. 

I'm  very  fond  of  Bryant,  too, 
He  brings  to  me  the  woodland  smelley; 
Why  should  I  quote  that  "village  roo," 
P.  Shelley? 

I  think  Felicia  Hemans  great, 
I  dote  upon  Jean  Ingelow ; 
Yet  quote  from  such  a  reprobate 
As  Poe. 

To  quote  from  drunkard  or  from  rake 
Is  not  a  proper  thing  to  do. 
I  find  the  habit  hard  to  break, 
Don't  you? 

BERT  LESTON  TAYLOR. 


PREFACE 

A  complete  collection  of  the  convivial  and  merry 
verse  in  the  English  language  would  doubtless  be 
of  interest  to  scholars :  but  for  most  of  us  it  would 
be  insufferably  dull.  The  drinking  songs  of  the 
eighteenth  century  alone,  when  "bottle-companions" 
were  issued  by  the  dozen,  would  till  a  library,  and 
they  are  mostly  of  inferior  quality.  In  this  book 
I  have  made  no  attempt  to  compile  a  complete 
anthology.  Of  the  old  convivial  literature  I  have 
omitted  all  save  those  catches  and  longer  songs 
which  have  seemed  to  me  most  likely  to  strike  a 
chord  of  sympathy  in  the  heart  of  a  modern, — and 
by  no  means  all  of  those.  The  "Stag's  Hornbook" 
is  designed  as  a  companion,  not  an  encyclopedia. 
To  all  who  are  interested  in  the  historical  aspects 
of  English  convivial  verse,  I  can  do  no  better  than 
recommend  Hutchison's  excellent  collection,  "Songs 
of  the  Vine." 

It  is  with  more  regret  that  I  have  omitted  certain 
verses  quite  widely  admired,  which  are  not  disfig- 
ured by  archaism.  But  it  is  not  possible  to  include 
everything.  Lack  of  space  makes  it  out  of  the 
question  to  include  those  delightful  long  poems 
"Beer"  by  Charles  Stuart  Calverley,  "The  Tip- 
pling Philosophers,"  "The  Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse" 
by  W.  M.  Thackeray,  and  "His  Farewell  to  Sack" 
by  Robert  Herrick.  I  have  not  succeeded  in  get- 
9 


10  PREFACE 

ting1  sanction  to  include  "The  Maltworm's  Madri- 
gal" by  Mr.  Austin  Dobson,  "Dekker's  Song"  by 
Mr.  Alfred  Noyes,  and  "Terence,  This  Is  Stupid 
Stuff"  by  Mr.  A.  E.  Housman.  And,  after  care- 
ful consideration — the  size  of  this  volume  being 
necessarily  limited — I  have  omitted  from  the  collec- 
tion the  following  standard  verses  which  no  doubt 
many  readers  of  the  "Stag's  Hornbook"  will  expect 
to  find:  "Andro  and  His  Cutty  Gun";  "The  Dirge 
of  the  Drinker"  by  W.  E.  Aytoun ;  "Gane  Is  the  Day 
and  Mirk's  the  Night"  and  "Gude  Ale  Keeps  the 
Heart  Abune"  by  Robert  Burns;  "With  an  Honest 
Old  Friend"  by  Henry  Carey;  "The  Cruiskeen 
Lawn";  "The  Monks  of  the  Screw"  by  J.  P.  Cur- 
ran;  "Rum  and  Milk"  by  C.  W.  Dalmon;  "The 
Stoop  of  Rhenish"  by  John  Davidson ;  "The  Part- 
ing Glass"  by  Philip  Freneau;  "The  Spirit  of 
Wine"  by  W.  E.  Henley;  "On  Lending  a  Punch- 
bowl" by  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes ;  "The*  Jovial 
Priest's  Confession" ;  "Give  Me  the  Old"  by  R.  H. 
Messinger;  "The  Toper's  Apology"  by  Captain 
Charles  Morris ;  "Drink  to  Her,"  "Fill  the  Bumper 
Fair,"  and  "One  Bumper  at  Parting"  by  Thomas 
Moore;  "0  Gude  Ale  Comes  and  Gude  Ale  Goes"; 
"Old  Wine"  by  W.  M.  Praed ;  "Oh,  the  Days  When 
I  Was  Young"  by  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan; 
"When  the  Chill  Charokkoe  Blows"  "With  My  Jug 
in  One  Hand" ; — and  of  course  a  score  of  others. 

It  has  seemed  advisable,  too,  not  to  include  in 
the  collection  a  number  of  the  colloquial  toasts 
and  catches  now  current  in  the  United  States. 
They  are  mostly  to  be  found  in  the  toast-books  in 
general  circulation. 

It  had  been  my  intention  to  print  in  the  "Stag's 


PREFACE  11 

Hornbook"  the  best  of  the  deservedly  famous 
Latin  and  German  student-songs,  with  a  sprin- 
kling of  French  airs  a  boire,  but  that  is  for  the 
present  impossible. 

In  the  compilation  of  this  volume  I  have  made 
extensive  use  of  W.  G.  Hutchison's  two  an- 
thologies "Lyra  Nicotiana"  and  "Songs  of  the 
Vine."  I  am  very  much  indebted  to  them  both, 
and  to  Mr.  Wallace  Rice's  various  compilations, 
particularly  "Toasts  and  Tipple,"  and  to  Mr.  Wal- 
lace Rice  himself.  I  wish  here  to  acknowledge  the 
courtesy  of  the  following  authors  and  publishers 
who  have  granted  me  permission  to  make  use  of 
copyrighted  material  as  indicated:  Mr.  George 
Ade  ("R-e-m-o-r-s-e") ;  Mr.  Hilaire  Belloc  ("Sus- 
sex Drinking  Song") ;  Sir  Robert  Bridges  ("Crown 
Winter  with  Green");  Mr.  Gelett  Burgess  ("I 
.wish  that  my  room  had  a  floor") ;  Mr.  Bliss  Car- 
man .("A  Thanksgiving,"  "I  came  to  a  roadside 
dwelling,"  and  "The  Joys  of  the  Road"  by  him- 
self, and  the  various  poems  by  Richard  Hovey 
which  I  have  reprinted  from  their  "Songs  from 
Vagabondia") ;  Mr.  G.  K.  Chesterton  ("I  Come 
from  Castlepatrick,"  "Feast  on  Wine  or  Fast  on 
Water,"  "Old  Noah  He  Had  an  Ostrich  Farm") ; 
Mr.  Austin  Dobson  ("To  Richard  Watson  Gilder." 
Messrs.  Dodd,  Mead  and  Company  ("A  Grain  of 
Salt,"  from  "Nautical  Lays  of  a  Landsman"  by 
Wallace  Irwin ) ;  Messrs.  Doubleday,  Page  and  Com- 
pany ("The  Betrothed,"  "The  Ladies,"  "La  Nuit 
Blanche,"  "The  Story  of  Uriah,"  by  Rudyard 
Kipling) ;  Messrs.  Paul  Elder  and  Company  (eight 
lines  from  "The  Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam, 
Jr.,"  by  Wallace  Irwin) ;  Messrs.  Forbes  and  Com- 


12  PREFACE 

pany  ("I  Like  the  New  Friends  Best"  and  "If  I 
Should  Die  tonight"  by  Ben  King,  from '"Ben 
King's  Verse");  Mr.  Gerald  Gould  ("Wander- 
thirst");  Mr.  Thomas  Hardy  ("The  Ruined 
Maid,"  "I  said  to  Love");  Mr.  Oliver  Herford 
("The  Bubble  Winked,"  "Here's  to  Old  Adam's 
Crystal  Ale,"  "God  Made  Man") ;  Messrs.  Hough- 
ton  Mifflin  Company  ("Latakia"  by  T.  B.  Aldrich. 
"Beer"  and  "Youth  and  Age"  by  George  Arnold, 
"Good  and  Bad  Luck"  by  John  Hay,  "The  Three 
Wives"  and  "The  Family  Man"  by  J.  G.  Saxe,  "In 
Japan"  by  E.  R.  Sill,  "Falstaff's  Song"  by  E.  C. 
Stedman,  "Dum  Vivimus  Vigilamus"  by  C.  H. 
Webb) ;  Mr.  Wallace  Irwin  (eight  lines  from  "The 
Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam,  Jr.,"  "A  Grain  of 
Salt,"'  "From  Romany  "to  Rome") ;  Mr.  Tudor 
Jenks  ("An  Old  Bachelor");  Mr.  Rudyard  Kip- 
ling ("The  Bethrothed,"  "The  Ladies',"  "La  Nuit 
Blanche,"  "The  Story  of  Uriah") ;  Mr.  S.  E.  Kiser 
("I'd  Trust  My  Husband  Anywhere") ;  Messrs. 
John  Lane  Company  ("A  Outrance,"  from  "The 
Wind  in  the  Clearing  and  Other  Poems"  by  Robert 
Cameron  Rogers,  "The  Apparition,"  from  "Poems" 
by  Stephen  Phillips,  and  "I  Come  from  Castlepat- 
rick,"  "Feast  on  Wine  or  Fast  on  Water,"  "Old 
Noah  He  Had  an  Ostrich  Farm,"  by  G.  K.  Ches- 
terton, all  from  "The  Flying  Inn") ;  Mr.  Richard 
LeGallienne  ("With  Pipe  and  Book,"  various 
stanzas  from  "The  Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam") 
Messrs.  John  W.  Luce  and  Company  ("Epitaph" 
by  J.  M.  Synge) ;  Mr.  David  McKay  ("Breit- 
mann's  Rauchlied"  and  "Wein  Geist,"  from 
"Hans  Breitmann's  Ballads"  by  C.  G.  Lei  and ); 


PREFACE  13 

the  Macmillan  Company  ("Sea.  Fever"  and  "Cap- 
tain Stratton's  Fancy,"  from  "Salt  Water  Poems 
and  Ballads"  by  John  Masefield,  and  "From 
Romany  to  Rome,"  from  "Random  Rhymes  and 
Odd  Numbers"  by  Wallace  Irwin) ;  Mr.  John 
Joseph  McVey  ("The  Cry  of  the  Dreamer,"  by 
J.  B.  O'Reilly);  Mr.  Oliver  Marble  ("The  Old 
Reprobate's  Song,"  "There  Was  a  Young  Man"); 
Mr.  E.  S.  Martin  ("Fuit  Ilium,"  "Procul  Nego- 
tiis");  Mr.  John  Masefield  ("Sea  Fever,"  "Cap- 
tain Stratton's  Fancy") ;  Mr.  Brander  Matthews 
("Smoke,"  "A  Ballade  of  Tobacco") ;  Mr.  Thomas 
Bird  Mosher  (Payne's  translation  of  the  "Ballad 
of  Good  Doctrine"  by  Francois  Villon) ;  G.  P. 
Putnam's  Sons  ("A  Drinking  Song,"  from  "Or- 
chard Songs"  by  Norman  Gale) ;  Mr.  Wallace 
Rice  ("The  Drinker's  Commandments,"  "A  Rule 
of.  Three,"  "A  Toast  to  Tobacco  Smoke") ;  Messrs. 
G.  Routledge  &  Sons  ("Rosy  Wine"  and  "In  Child- 
hood's Unsuspicious  Hours"  by  W.  J.  Linton) ; 
Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  ("The  Snakes," 
"The  Bottle  and  the  Bird,"  "The  Clink  of  the  Ice," 
and  several  short  extracts  from  other  poems  by 
Eugene  Field,  "A  Mile  an'  a  Bittock"  by  R.  L. 
Stevenson,  "Night  and  Day"  by  R.  H.  Stoddard, 
"Procul  Negotiis"  and  "Fuit  Ilium"  by  E.  S.  Mar- 
tin, from  "Poems"  by  E.  S.  Martin) ;  Messrs. 
Small  Maynard  and  Company  ("The  Joys  of  the 
Road"  by  Bliss  Carman,  "A  Toast,"  "The  Kav- 
anagh,"  and  "Comrades"  by  Richard  Hovey,  from 
"Songs  from  Vagabondia,"  "Barney  McGee"  and 
"A  Stein  Song"  by  Richard  Hovey,  from  "More 
Songs  from  Vagabondia,"  "I  came  to  a  roadside 
dwelling"  and  "A  Thanksgiving"  by  Bliss  Carman, 


14  PREFACE 

from  "Last  Songs  from  Vagabondia,"  "Hanover 
Winter-Song"  by  Richard  Hovey,  from  "Along  the 
Trail"  by  Richard  Hovey) ;  Messrs.  Frederick  A. 
Stokes  Company  ("To  Critics"  and  "The  Prime 
of  Life,"  from  "Between  Times"  by  Walter 
Learned) ;  Mr.  Edward  Synge  ("Epitaph"  by  J. 
M.  Synge) ;  Mr.  Bert  Leston  Taylor  ("The  Bards 
We  Quote") ;  The  Wheeler  Publishing  Company 
("New  Year's  Resolutions"  by  Eugene  Field).  It 
has  been  my  wish  to  infringe  upon  the  rights  of 
no  one  in  this  collection.  Certain  selections  which 
I  have  been  unable  to  trace  are  perhaps  copy- 
righted. In  any  such  case,  I  beg  that  my  sincere 
apologies  be  accepted. 

JOHN  McCLURE. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  FOBTY  CLASSICS  17 

THE  JUG  81 

THE  MEBEY  MEN  131 

THE  TEMPESTUOUS  PETTICOAT  179 

THE  JOYS  WE  Miss  231 

OUR  FATHERS  AFOBE  Us  255 

OUB  LADY  NICOTINE  279 
-SWEET  CONTENT 

DOUBLE  DOUBLE,  TOIL  AND  TBOUBLE!  351 

THE  ROAD  363 

A  MAD  WORLD,  MY  MASTEBS  375 

THE  LEAN  FELLOW  391 

MISCELLANY  411 


THE  FOETY  CLASSICS 


. 
SUSSEX  DRINKING  .SONG 

They  sell  good  beer  at  Haslemere 

And  under  Guildford  Hill; 
At  little  Cowfold,  as  I've  been  told, 

A  beggar  may  drink  his  fill. 
There  is  a  good  brew  in  Ambeiiey  too, 

And  by  the  Bridge  also; 

But  the  swipes  they  take  in  at  the  Washington 
Inn 

Is  the  very  best  beer  I  know. 

With  my  here  it  goes,  there  it  goes, 

All  the  fun's  before  us. 
The  door's  ajar  and  the  barrel  is  sprung, 
The  tipple's  aboard  and  the  night  is  young; 
I  am  singing  the  best  song  ever  was  sung, 

And  it  has  a  rousing  chorus. 

If  I  was  what  I  never  can  be, 

The  Master  or  the  Squire; 
If  you  gave  me  the  rape  from  here  to  the  sea 

Which  is  more  than  I  desire: 
Then  all  my  crops  should  be  barley  and  hops, 

And  did  my  harvest  fail, 
I'd  sell  every  rood  of  my  acres,  I  would, 

For  a  bellyful  of  good  ale. 

HILAIRE  BELLOC. 
19 


20     THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


THE  KAVANAGH 

A  stone  jug  and  a  pewter  mug, 
And  a  table  set  for  three! 
A  jug  and  a  mug  at  every  place, 
And  a  biscuit  or  two  with  Brie! 
Three  stone  jugs  of  Cruiskeen  Lawn, 
And  a  cheese  like  crusted  foam! 
The  Kavanagh  receives  to-night; 
McMuiTough  is  at  home ! 

We  three  and  the  barley-bree! 

And  a  health  to  the  one  away, 

Who  drifts  down  careless  Italy, 

God's  wanderer  and  estray! 

For  friends  are  more  than  Arno's  store 

Of  garnered  charm,  and  he 

Were  blither  with  us  here  the  night 

Than  Titian  bids  him  be. 

Throw  ope  the  window  to  the  stars, 
And  let  the  warm  night  in ! 
Who  knows  what  revelry  in  Mars 
May  rhyme  with  rouse  akin? 
Fill  up  and  drain  the  loving  cup 
And  leave  no  drop  to  waste! 
The  moon  looks  in  to  see  what's  up — 
Begad,  she'd  like  a  taste! 

What  odds  if  Leinster's  kingly  roll 
Be  now  an  idle  thing? 
The  world  is  his  who  takes  his  toll, 
A  vagrant  or  a  king. 


THE  FORTY  CLASSICS  21 

What  though  the  crown  be  melted  down, 
And  the  heir  a  gipsy  roam? 
The  Kavanagh  receives  to-night! 
McMurrough  is  at  home! 

We  three  and  the  barley -bree! 

And  the  moonlight  on  the  floor! 

Who  were  a  man  to  do  with  less? 

What  emperor  has  more? 

Three  stone  jugs  of  Cruiskeen  Lawn, 

And  three  stout  hearts  to  drain 

A  slanter  to  the  truth  in  the  heart  of  youth 

And  the  joy  of  the  love  of  men. 

RICHARD  HOVEY. 


22  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

AN  OLD  BACHELOR 

'Twas  raw,  and  chill,  and  cold  outside, 

With  a  boisterous  wind  untamed, 
But  I  was  sitting  snug  within, 
Where  my  good  log-fire  flamed; 
As  my  clock  ticked, 
My  cat  purred, 
And  my  kettle  sang. 

I  read  me  a  tale  of  war  and  love, 

Brave  knights  and  their  ladies  fair; 
And  I  brewed  a  brew  of  stiff  hot-scotch 
To  drive  away  dull  care; 
As  my  clock  ticked, 
My  cat  purred, 
And  my  kettle  sang. 

At  last  the  candles  sputtered  out, 

But  the  embers  still  were  bright, 
When  I  turned  my  tumbler  upside  down, 
An'  bade  m'self  g'night! 
As  th'  ket'l  t-hic-ked, 
The  clock  purred, 
And  the  cat  (hie)  sang! 

TUDOR  JENKS. 


23 

CORONEMUS  NOS  ROSIS  ANTEQUAM 
MARCESCANT 

. 

Let  us  drink  and  be  merry,  dance,  joke,  and  re- 
joice, 

With  claret  and  sherry,  theorbo  and  voice! 
The  changeable  world  to  our  joy  is  unjust, 
All  treasure's  uncertain, 
Then  down  with  your  dust! 

In  frolics  dispose  your  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence, 
For  we  shall  be  nothing  a  hundred  years  hence. 

We'll  sport  and  be  free  with  Moll,  Betty  and 

Dolly, 

Have  oysters  and  lobsters  to  cure  Melancholy: 
Fish-dinners  will  make  a  man  spring  like  a  flea, 

Dame  Venus,  love's  lady, 

Was  born  of  the  sea : 

With  her  and  with  Bacchus  we'll  tickle  the  sense, 
For  we  shall  be  past_  it  a  hundred  years  hence. 

Your  most  beautiful  bride  who  with  garlands  is 

crown'd 
And  kills  with  each  glance  as  she  treads  on  the 

ground, 
Whose   lightness    and    brightness    doth    shine   in 

such  splendour 
That  none  but  the  stars 
Are  thought  fit  to  attend  her, 
Though  now  she  be  pleasant  and  sweet  to  the  sense, 
Will  be  damnably  mouldy  a  hundred  years  hence. 


24  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Then  why  should  we  turmoil  in  cares  and  in  fears, 
Turn  all  our  tranquillity  to  sighs  and  to  tears? 
Let's  eat,  drink,  and  play  till  the  worms  do  corrupt 

us, 

'Tis  certain,  Post  mortem 
Nulla  voluptas. 
For  health,  wealth  and  beauty,  wit,  learning  and 

sense, 

Must  all  come  to  nothing  a  hundred  years  hence. 

THOMAS  JORDAN. 

(Incomplete.) 


25 


I'M  VERY  FOND  OF  WATER 

A  New  Temperance  Song 
(Adapted  from  the  Platt  Deutsch) 

I'm  very  fond  of  water, 
I  drink  it  noon  and  night : 

Not  Rechab's  son  or  daughter 
Had  therein  more  delight. 

I  breakfast  on  it  daily; 

And  nectar  it  doth  seem, 
When  once  I've  mixed  it  gaily 

With  sugar  and  with  cream. 
But  I  forgot  to  mention 

That  in  it  first  I  see 
Infused  or  in  suspension, 

Good  Mocha  or  Bohea. 

Chorus — 
I'm  very  fond  of  water, 

I  drink  it  noon  and  night; 
No  mother's  son  or  daughter 

Hath  therein  more  delight. 

At  luncheon,  too,  I  drink  it, 
And  strength  it  seems  to  bring: 

When  really  good,  I  think  it 
A  liquor  for  a  king. 

But  I  forgot  to  mention — 
'Tis  best  to  be  sincere — 


26  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

I  use  an  old  invention 
That  makes  it  into  Beer. 

I'm  very  fond  of  water,  etc. 

I  drink  it,  too,  at  dinner ; 

I  quaff  it  full  and  free, 
And  find,  as  I'm  a  sinner, 

It  does  not  disagree, 
But  I  forgot  to  mention — 

As  thus  I  drink  and  dine, 
To  obviate  distension, 

I  join  some  Sherry  wine. 

I'm  very  fond  of  water,  etc. 


And  then  when  dinner's  over, 

And  business  far  away, 
I  feel  myself  in  clover, 

And  sip  my  eau  sucree. 
But  I  forgot  to  mention — 

To  give  the  glass  a  smack, 
I  add,  with  due  attention, 

Glenlivet  or  Cognac. 

I'm  very  fond  of  water,  etc. 

At  last  when  evening  closes, 

With  something  nice  to  eat, 
The  best  of  sleeping  doses 

In  water  still  I  meet. 
But  I  forgot  to  mention — 

I  think  it  not  a  sin 
To  cheer  the  daj''s  declension, 

By  pouring  in  some  Gin. 


THE  FORTY  CLASSICS  27 

I'm  very  fond  of  water: 

It  ever  must  delight 
Each  mother's  son  or  daughter — 

When  qualified  aright. 

LORD  NEAVES. 


If  on  my  theme  I  rightly  think, 
There  are  five  reasons  why  I  drink, — 
Good  wine,  a  friend,  because  I'm  dry, 
Or  lest  I  should  be  by  and  by, 
Or  any  other  reason  why. 

DEAN  HENRY  ALDRICH. 


I  jirft 

• 

• 

:fl 


£8  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

CAPTAIN  STRATTON'S  FANCY 

AIR — "Masefield's  Own." 

Oh,  some  are  fond  of  red  wine,  and  some  are  fond 

of  white, 

And  some  are  all  for  courting  hy  the  pale  moon- 
light, 

But  rum  alone's  the  tipple,  and  the  heart's  delight 
Of  the  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 

Oh,  some  are  fond  of  Spanish  wine,  and  some  are 

fond  of  French, 
And  some'll  swallow  tay  and  stuff  fit  only  for  a 

wench, 
But  I'm  for  right  Jamaica  till  I  roll  beneath  the 

bench, 
Says  the  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 

Oh,  some  are  for  the  lily,  and  some  are  for  the 

rose, 

But  I  am  for  the  sugar-cane  that  in  Jamaica  grows. 
For  it's  that  that  makes  the  bonny  drink  to  warm 

my  copper  nose, 
Says  the  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 

Oh,  some  are  fond  of  fiddles,  and  a  song  well  sung, 
And  some  are  all  for  music  for  to  lilt  upon  the 

tongue ; 

But  mouths  were  made  for  tankards,  and  for  suck- 
ing at  the  bung, 
Says  the  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 


THE  FORTY  CLASSICS  20 

Oh,  some  are  fond  of  dancing,  and  some  are  fond 

of  dice, 
And  some  are  all  for  red  lips,  and  pretty  lasses' 

eyes; 

But  a  right  Jamaica  puncheon  is  a  finer  prize 
To  the  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 

Oh,  some  that's  good  and  godly  ones  they  say  that 

it's  a  sin, 
To  troll  the  jolly  bowl  around,  arid  let  the  dollars 

spin; 

But  I'm  for  toleration,  and  for  drinking  at  an  inn, 
Says  the  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 

Oh,  some  are  sad  and  wretched  folk  that  go  in 

silken  suits, 
And  there's  a  mort  of  wicked  knaves  that  live  in 

good  reputes; 
So  I'm  for  drinking  honestly,  and  dying  in  my 

boots, 
Like  an  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 

JOHN  MASEFIELD. 


SO  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


COME,  LANDLORD  .  .  . 

He  that  drinketh  strong  beer 

And  goes  to  bed  right  mellow, 
Lives  as  lie  ought  to  live 
And  dies  a  hearty  fellow. 

Come,  landlord,  fill  the  flowing  bowl 

Until  it  does  run  over, 
For  tonight  we'll  merry,  merry  be, 
For  tonight  we'll  merry,  merry  be, 
For  tonight  we'll  merry,  merry  be, 
Tomorrow  we'll  get  sober. 

He  that  drinketh  small  beer 

And  goes  to  bed  sober 
Falls  as  the  leaves  do  fall 

That  die  in  dull  October. 
Come,  etc. 

Punch  cures  the  gout, 

The  colic  and  phthisic; 
So  it  is  to  all  men 

The  best  of  physic. 
Come,  etc.  .  .  . 

He  that  courts  a  pretty  girl, 

And  courts  her  for  his  pleasure, 

Is  a  knave  unless  he  marries  her 
"Without  store  or  treasure. 
Come,  etc.  .  .  . 


THE  FORTY  CLASSICS  31 

So  now  let  us  dance  and  sing1 

And  drive  away  all  sorrow, — 
For  perhaps  we  may  not 
Meet  again  tomorrow. 

Come,  landlord,  fill  tbe  flowing  bowl  .  .  . 

Old  Song. 


32  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


BACK  AND  SIDE  GO  BARE,  GO  BARE 

Back  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare, 

Both  foot  and  hand  go  cold; 
But,  belly,  God  send  tliee  good  ale  enough, 

Whether  it  be  new  or  old. 

I  cannot  eat  but  little  meat, 

My  stomach  is  not  good ; 
But  sure  I  think  that  I  can  drink 

With  him  that  wears  a  hood. 
Though  I  go  bare,  take  ye  no  care, 

I  am  nothing  a-cold; 
I  stuff  my  skin  so  full  within 

Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 

Back  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare, 

Both  foot  and  hand  go  cold; 
But,  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  enough, 

Whether  it  be  new  or  old. 

I  love  no  roast  but  a  nut-brown  toast, 

And  a  crab  laid  in  the  fire; 
A  little  bread  shall  do  me  stead, 

Much  bread  I  not  desire. 
No  frost  nor  snow,  no  wind,  I  trow, 

Can  hurt  me  if  I  would, 
I  am  so  wrapt  and  throughly  lapt 

Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 

Back  and  side  go  bare,  etc. 


THE  FORTY  CLASSICS  i 

And  Tib,  my  wife,  that  as  her  life 

Loveth  well  good  ale  to  seek, 
Full  oft  drinks  she,  till  ye  may  see 

The  tears  run  down  her  cheek. 
Then  doth  she  trowl  to  me  the  bowl, 

Even  as  a  maltworm  should, 
And  saith,  Sweetheart,  I  have  taken  my  part 

Of  this  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 

Back  and  side  go  bare,  etc. 

Now  let  them  drink,  till  they  nod  and  wink 

Even  as  good  fellows  should  do; 
They  shall  not  miss  to  have  the  bliss 

Good  ale  doth  bring  men  to. 
And  all  poor  souls  that  have  scoured  bowls, 

Or  have  them  lustily  trowled, 
God  save  the  lives  of  them  and  their  wives, 

Whether  they  be  young  or  old. 

Back  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare, 

Both  foot  and  hand  go  cold; 
But,  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  enough, 

Whether  it  be  new   or  old. 

JOHN  STILL  (?) 


34  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


EPITAPH  FOR  JAMES  SMITH 

Lament  him,  Maucbline  husbands  a', 

He  aften  did  assist  ye; 
For  had  ye  staid  hale  weeks  awa, 

Your  wives  they  ne'er  had  miss'd  ye. 
Ye  Mauchline  bairns,  as  on  ye  press 

To  school  in  bands  thegither, 
0  tread  ye  lightly  on  his  grass, — 

Perhaps  he  was  your  father. 

ROBERT   BURNS. 


THE  FORTY  CLASSICS  35 


GUDE  E'EN  TO  YOU,  KIMMER 

"Gude  e'en  to  you,  kimmer, 

And  how  do  ye  do?" 
"Hiccup !"  quo'  kimmer, 

"The  better  that  I'm  f ou !" 


Chorus — 

We're  a'  noddin', 
Nid  nid  noddin', 
We're  a'  noddin' 
At  our  house  at  name! 


Kate  sits  i'  the  neuk, 

Suppin'  hen-broo; 
Deil  tak'  Kate 

And  she  be  na  .noddin'  too ! 

"How's  a'  wi'  you,  kimmer? 

And  how  do  you  fare?" 
"A  pint  o'  the  best  o't, 

And  twa  pints  mair!" 

"How's  a'  wi'  you,  kimmer? 

And  how  do  ye  thrive? 
How  monie  bairns  hae  ye?" 

Quo'  kimmer,  "I  hae  five." 

"Are  they  a'  Johnie's?" 
"Eh!  atweel  na: 


36  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Twa  o'  them  were  gotten 
When  Johnie  was  awa!" 

Cats  like  milk 

And  dogs  like  broo; 
Lads  like  lasses  weel, 

And  lasses  lads  too. 

We're  a'  noddin', 
Nid  nid  noddin', 
We're  a'  noddin' 
At  our  house  at  hame ! 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


37 


LANDLADY,  COUNT  THE  LAWIN' 

Landlady,  count  the  lawin', 

The  day  is  near  the  dawin'; 

Ye're  a'  blind  drunk,  boys, 

And  I'm  but  jolly  fou. 

Hey  tutti,  taiti, 

How  tutti,  taiti, 

Hey  tutti,  taiti, 

Wha's  fou  now"? 

Cog,  an  ye  were  ay  fou, 

Cog,  an  ye  were  ay  fou, 

I  wad  sit  an'  sing  to  you, 

If  ye  were  ay  fou! 

Weel  may  ye  a'  be! 
Ill  may  ye  never  see! 
God  bless  the  King 
And  the  companie! 
Hey  tutti,  taiti, 
How  tutti,  taiti, 
Hey  tutti,  taiti, 
Wlm's  fou  now? 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


38  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


WILLIE  BREWED  A  PECK  0'  MAUT 

0  Willie  brew'd  a  peck  o'  maut, 
And  Rob  and  Allan  cam  to  see; 

Three  blither  hearts,  that  lee-lang  night, 
Ye  wad  na  found  in  Christendie. 

Chorus.    We  are  na  fou,  we're  nae  that  fou, 

But  just  a  drappie  in  our  ee; 
The  cock  may  craw,  the  day  may  daw, 

And  ay  we'll  taste  the  barley-bree. 

Here  are  we  met,  three  merry  boys, 
Three  merry  boys  I  trow  are  we ; 

And  mony  a  night  we've  merry  been, 
And  mony  mae  we  hope  to  be ! 

It  is  the  moon,  I  ken  her  horn, 
That's  blinkin'  in  the  lift  sae  hie; 

She  shines  sae  bright  to  wyle  us  hame, 
But,  by  my  sooth,  she'll  wait  a  wee! 

Wha  first  shall  rise  to  gang  awa, 

A  cuckold,  coward  loun  is  he ! 
Wha  first  beside  his  chair  shall  fa', 

He  is  the  King  amang  us  three. 

We  are  na  fou,  etc.,  etc. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


THE  FORTY  CLASSICS  39 


0  GOOD  ALE,  THOU  ART  MY  DARLING 

The  landlord  he  looks  very  big, 

With  his  high  cocked  hat  and  his  powder*  d  wig. 

Methinks  he  looks  both  fair  and  fat, 

But  he  may  thank  you  and  me  for  that : 
For  'tis  0  good  ale,  thou  art  my  darling, 
And  my  joy  both  night  and  morning. 

The  brewer  brewed  thee  in  his  pan, 
The  tapster  draws  thee  in  his  can; 
Now  I  with  thee  will  play  my  part, 
And  lodge  thee  next  unto  my  heart. 
For  'tis  0— 

Thou  oft  hast  made  my  friends  my  foes, 
And  often  made  me  pawn  my  clothes ; 
But  since  thou  art  so  nigh  my  nose, 
Come  up,  my  friend, — and  down  he  goes ! 
For  'tis  0  good  ale — 

Old  Song. 


40  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


TODLEN  BUTT  AND  TODLEN  BEN 

When  I've  a  saxpenee  under  my  thumb, 

Then  I'll  get  credit  in  ilka  town: 

But  ay  when  I'm  poor  they  bid  me  gang  by ; 

Poverty  parts  good  company! 
Todlen  home,  todlen  home, 
Couldna  my  loove  come  todlen  hamef 

Fair  fa'  the  goodvvife,  and  send  her  good  sale, 
She  gies  us  white  bannocks  to  drink  her  ale, 
Syne  if  her  tippony  chance  to  be  sma', 
We'll  tak  a  good  scour  o't,  and  ca't  awa'. 
Todlen  hame,  todlen  home, 
As  round  as  a  neep  come  todlen  hame. 

My  kirnmer  and  I  lay  down  to  sleep, 
And  twa  pint  stoups  at  our  bed's  feet ; 
And  ay  when  we  waken'd  we  drank  them  dry : 
What  think  ye  o'  my  wee  kimmer  and  I? 

Todlen  butt,  and  todlen  ben, 

Sae  round  as  my  loove  comes  todlen  hame. 

Leeze  me  on  liquor,  my  todlen  dow, 

Ye're  ay  sae  good  humour'd  when  weeting  your 
mou; 

When  sober  sae  sour,  ye'll  fight  with  a  flee, 

That  'tis  a  blythe  sight  to  the  bairns  and  me, 
When  todlen  hame,  todlen  hame, 
When  round  as  a  neep  you  come  todlen  hame. 

This  Reading  from  Ramsay's  "Miscellany." 


THE  FORTY  CLASSICS  41 


POTTEEN,  GOOD  LUCK  TO  YE,  DEAR 

Av  I  was  a  monarch  in  state, 

Like  Romulus  or  Julius  Caysar, 
With  the  best  of  fine  victuals  to  eat, 

And  drink  like  great  Nebuchadnezzar, 
A  rasher  of  bacon  I'd  have, 

And  potatoes  the  finest  was  seen,  sir; 
And  for  drink  it's  no  claret  I'd  crave, 

But  a  keg  of  ould  Mullin's  potteen,  sir, 
With  the  smell  of  the  smoke  in  it  still. 

They  talk  of  the  Romans  of  ould, 

Whom  they  say  in  their  own  times  was  frisky; 
But  trust  me,  to  keep  out  the  cowld, 

The  Romans  at  home  here  like  whiskey; 
Sure,  it  warms  both  the  head  and  the  heart, 

It's  the  soul  of  all  readin'  and  writin'; 
It  teaches  both  science  an'  art, 

And  disposes  for  love  or  for  fightin'. 
Ah,  potteen,  good  luck  to  ye,  dear ! 

CHARLES  LEVER. 

(From  "Charles  O'Malley.") 


42  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


MICKEY  TREE'S  SONG 

It's  little  for  glory  I  care; 

Sure  ambition  is  only  a  fable; 
I'd  as  soon  be  myself  as  Lord  Mayor, 

With  lashings  of  drink  on  the  table. 
I  like  to  lie  down  in  the  sun 

And  drame,  when  my  faytures  is  scorchin' 
That  when  I'm  too  ould  for  more  fun, 

Why,  I'll  marry  a  wife  with  a  fortune. 

And  in  winter,  with  bacon  and  eggs, 

And  a  place  at  the  turf-fire  basking, 
Sip  my  punch  as  I  roasted  rny  legs, 

Oh,  the  devil  a  more  I'd  be  asking! 
For  I  haven't  a  janius  for  work, — 

It  was  never  the  gift  of  the  Bradies, — 
But  I'd  make  a  most  illigant  Turk, 

For  I'm  fond  of  tobacco  and  ladies. 
CIIABLES  LEVER. 

(From  "Charles  O'Malley.") 


THE  FORTY  CLASSICS  43 


THE  LADIES 

I've  taken  my  fun  where  I've  found  it; 

I've  rogued  an'  I've  ranged  in  my  time; 
I've  'ad  my  pickin'  o'  sweet'earts, 

An'  four  o'  the  lot  was  prime. 
One  was  a  'arf -caste  widow, 

One  was  a  woman  at  Prome, 
One  was  the  wife  of  a  jemadar-sais* 

An'  one  is  a  girl  at  'ome. 


Now  I  aren't  no  'and  with  the  ladies, 

For,  takin'  'em  all  along, 
You  never  can  say  till  you've  tried  'em, 

An'  then  you  are  like  to  be  wrong. 
There's  times  when  you'll  think  that  you  mightn't, 

There's  times  when  you'll  think  that  you  might; 
But  the  things  you  will  learn  from  the  Yellow  and 
Brown, 

They'll  'elp  you  an  'eap  with  the  White! 


I  was  a  young  un  at  'Oogli, 

Shy  as  a  girl* to  begin; 
Aggie  de  Castrer  she  made  me, 

An'  Aggie  was  clever  as  sin; 
Older  than  me,  but  my  first  un — 

More  like  a  mother  she  were — 
Showed  me  the  way  to  promotion  an'  pay, 

An'  I  learned  about  women  from  'er. 

*  Head-groom. 


44  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Then  I  was  ordered  to  Burma, 

Actin'  in  charge  o'  Bazar, 
An'  I  got  me  a  tiddy  live  'eathen 

Through  buyin'  supplies  off  'er  pa. 
Funny  an'  yellow  an'  faithful — 

Doll  in  a  teacup  she  were, 
But  we  lived  on  the  square  like  a  true-married  pair, 

An'  I  learned  about  women  from  'er. 

Then  we  was  shifted  to  Neemuch 

(Or  I  might  ha'  been  keepih'  'er  now), 
An'  I  took  with  a  shiny  she-devil, 

The  wife  of  a  nigger  at  Mhow; 
'Taught  me  the  gipsy-folks'  bolee  * ; 

Kind  o'  volcano  she  were, 

For  she  knifed  me  one  night  'cause  I  wished  she 
was  white, 

An'  I  learned  about  women  from  'er. 

Then  I  come  'ome  in  the  trooper, 

'Long  of  a  kid  o'  sixteen —    \ 
Girl  from  a  convent  at  Meerut, 

The  straightest  I  ever  'ave  seen. 
Love  at  first  sight  was  'er  trouble, 

She  didn't  know  what  it  were; 
An'  I  wouldn't  do  such,  'cause  I  like'd  her  too  much, 

But — I  learned  about  women  from  'er ! 

I've  taken  my  fun  where  I've  found  it, 

An'  now  I  must  pay  for  my  fun, 
For  the  more  you  'ave  known  o'  the  others 

The  less  you  will  settle  to  one; 

*  Slang. 


THE  FORTY  CLASSICS  45 

An'  the  end  of  it's  sittiu'  an'  thinkin', 

An'  dreamin'  Hell-tires  to  see; 
So  be  warned  by  rny  lot   (which  1  know  you  will 
not), 

An'  learn  about  women  from  me ! 

What  did  the  colonel's  lady  think? 

Nobody  ever  knew. 
Somebody  asked  the  sergeant's  wife, 

An'  she  told  'em  true. 
When  you  get  to  a  man  in  the  case, 

They're  like  as  a  row  of  pins — 
For  the  colonel's  lady  an'  Judy  O'Grady 

Are  sisters  under  their  skins! 

RUDYARD  KIPLING. 


. 


46  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


SONG 

Some  say  women  are  like  the  sea, 

Some  the  waves  and  some  the  rocks, 
Some  the  rose  that  soon  decays, 

Some  the  weather,  some  the  cocks; 
But  if  you'll  give  me  leave  to  tell, 
There's  nothing1  can  be  compared  so  well, 
As  wine,  wine,  women  and  wine, 
They  run  in  a  parallel. 

Women  are  witches  when  they  will, 

So  is  wine,  so  is  wine, 
They  make  the  statesman  lose  his  skill, 

The  soldier,  lawyer,  and  divine; 

They  put  a  gigrg  in  the  gravest  skull, 

And  send  their  wits  to  gather  wool; 

'Tis  wine,  wine,  women  and  wine, 

They  run  in  a  parallel. 

What  is't  makes  your  face  so  pale, 

What  is't  that  makes  your  looks  divine, 

What  makes  your  courage  rise  and  fall? 
Is  it  not  women,  is  it  not  wine? 

Whence  proceed  the  inflaming  doses 

That  set  fire  to  your  noses? 

From  wine,  wine,  women  and  wine, 
They  run  in  a  parallel. 

This  reading  from  Ramsay's  "Tea 
Table  Miscellany." 


THE  FORTY  CLASSICS  47 


THE  RUINED  MAID 

"0  'Melia,  my  dear,  this  does  every  thing -crown ! 
Who  could  have  supposed  I  should  meet  you  in 

Town  f 
And   whence   such    fair  garments,   such   prosper- 

i-tyf— 

"0  didn't  you  know  I'd  been  ruined1?"  said  she. 

— "You  left  us  in  tatters,  without  shoes  or  socks, 
Tired  of  digging  potatoes,  and  spudding  up  docks; 
And  now  you've  gay  bracelets  and  bright  feathers 

three  !"— 
"Yes :  that's  how  we  dress  when  we're  ruined,"  said 

she. 

— "At  home  in  the  barton  you  said  'thee'  and  'thou,' 
And  'thik  oon/  and  'theas  oon!'  and  't'other';  but 

now 

Your  talking  quite  fits  'ee  for  high  compa-ny!" — 
"Some  polish  is  gained  with  one's  ruin,"  said  she. 

— "Your  hands  were  like  paws  then,  your  face  blue 

and  bleak, 

But  now  I'm  bewitched  by  your  delicate  cheek, 
And  your  little  gloves  fit  as  on  any  la-dy !" — 
"We  never  do  work  when  we're  ruined,"  said  she. 

— "You  used  to  call  home-life  a  hag-ridden  dream, 
And  you'd  sigh,  and  you'd  sock;  but  at  present  you 

seem 

To  know  not  of  megrims  or  melanchol-ly !" 
''True.     There's  an  advantage  in  ruin,"  said  she.- 


48  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

— "I  wish  I  had  feathers,  a  fine  sweeping  gown, 
And    a    delicate    face,    and     could    strut    about 

Town  !"— 

"My  dear — a  raw  country  girl,  such  as  you  be, 
Isn't  equal  to  that.     You  ain't  ruined,"  said  she. 

THOMAS  HARDY. 


THE  FORTY  CLASSICS  49 


WHY  SO  PALE  AND  WAN? 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover? 

Prithee,  why  so  pale? 
Will,  when  looking  well  can't  move  her, 

Looking  ill  prevail? 

Prithee,  why  so  pale? 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute? 
Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win  her, 

Saying  nothing  do  't? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute? 


Quit,  quit  for  shame!     This  will  not  move; 

This  cannot  take  her. 
If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 

Nothing  can  make  her: 

The  devil  take  her! 

SIR  JOHN  SUCKLING. 


50  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


THE  AGE  OF  WISDOM 

Ho,  pretty  page,  with  the  dimpled  chin, 

That  never  has  known  the  barber's  shear, 
All  your  wish  is  woman  to  win, 
This  is  the  way  that  boys  begin, — 
Wait  till  you  come  to  Forty  Year. 

Curly  gold  locks  cover  foolish  brains, 

Billing  and  cooing  is  all  your  cheer; 
Sighing  and  singing  of  midnight  strains, 
Under  Bonnybcll's  window  panes, — 
Wait  till  you  come  to  Forty  Year. 

Forty  times  over  let  Michaelmas  pass, 
Grizzling  hair  the  brain  doth  clear — 
Then  you  know  a  boy  is  an  ass, 
Then  you  know  the  worth  of  a  lass, 
Once  you  have  come  to  Forty  Year. 

Pledge  me  round,  I  bid  ye  declare, 

All  good  fellows  whose  beards  are  grey, 
Did  not  the  fairest  of  the  fair 
Common  grow  and  wearisome  ere 
Ever  a  month  was  passed  away? 

The  reddest  lips  that  ever  have  kissed, 

The  brightest  eyes  that  ever  have  shone, 
May  pray  and  whisper  and  we  not  list, 
Or  look  away,  and  never  be  missed, 
Ere  yet  ever  a  month  is  gone. 


THE  FORTY  CLASSICS  51 

Gillian's  dead,  God  rest  her  bier, 
How  I  loved  her  twenty  years  synel 

Marian's  married,  but  I  sit  here 

Alone  and  merry  at  Forty  Year, 

Dipping  my  nose  in  the  Gascon  wine. 

WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 


52  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

OLD  TIME  AND  I 

Old  Time  and  I  the  other  night 

Had  a  carouse  together; 
The  wine  was  golden  warm  and  bright — 

Ay !  just  like  summer  weather. 
Quoth  I,  "There's  Christmas  come  again, 

And  I  no  farthing  richer." 
Time  answered,  "Ah !  the  old,  old  strain, — 

I  prithee  pass  the  pitcher. 

"Why  measure  all  your  good  in  gold  ? 

No  rope  of  sand  is  weaker; 
'Tis  hard  to  get,  'tis  hard  to  hold — 

Come,  lad,  fill  up  your  beaker. 
Hast  thou  not  found  true  friends  more  true, 

And  loving  ones  more  loving?" 
I  could  but  say,  "A  few — a  few — 

So  keep  the  liquor  moving." 

"Hast  thou  not  seen  the  prosperous  knave 

Come  down  a  precious  thumper, 
His  cheats  disclosed?"     "I  have — I  have!" 

"Well,  surely  that's  a  bumper." 
"Nay,  hold  awhile.     I've  seen  the  just 

Find  all  their  hopes  grow  dimmer." 
"They  will  hope  on,  and  strive,  and  trust 

And  conquer !"     "  That's  a  brimmer !" 

"  'Tis  not  because  to-day  is  dark, 
No  brighter  days  before  'em; 

There's  rest  for  every  storm-tossed  bark." 
"So  be  it!     Pass  the  jorum! 


THE  FORTY  CLASSICS  53 

Yet  I  must  own  I  would  not  mind 

To  be  a  little  richer." 
"Labor  and  wait,  and  you  may  find — 

Hallo!  an  empty  pitcher." 

MARK  LEMON. 


54     THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


BRANDY  AND  SODA 

Mine  eyes  to  mine  eyelids  cling  thickly, 

My  tongue  feels  a  mouthful  and  more, 
My  senses  are  sluggish  and  sickly, 

To  live  and  to  breathe  is  a  bore; 
My  head  weighs  a  ton  and  a  quarter 

By  pains  and  by  pangs  ever  split, 
Which  manifold  washings  with  water 

Relieve  not  a  bit. 

My  longings  of  thirst  are  unlawful, 

And  vain  to  console  or  control; 
The  aroma  of  coffee  is  awful, 

Repulsive  the  sight  of  the  roll; 
I  take  my  matutinal  journal 

And  strive  my  dull  wits  to  engage, 
But  cannot  endure  the  infernal 

Sharp  crack  of  its  page. 

What  bad  luck  my  soul  had  bedeviled, 
What  demon  of  spleen  and  of  spite, 

That  I  rashly  went  forth  and  I  revelled 
In  riotous  living  last  night? 

Had  the  fumes  of  the  goblet  no  odor 
That  well  might  repulse  or  restrain? 

0  insidious  brandy  and  soda, 
Our  Lady  of  Pain ! 

1  recall  with  a  flush  and  a  flutter 
That  orgy  whose  end  is  unknown ; 

Did  they  bear  me  to  bed  on  a  shutter, 
Or  did  I  reel  home  all  alone? 


THE  FORTY  CLASSICS  55 

Was  I  frequent  in  screams  and  in  screeches? 

Did  I  swear  with  a  forced  affright  ? 
Did  I  perpetrate  numerous  speeches? 

Did  I  get  in  a  fight  ? 

; 
Of  the  secrets  I  treasure  and  prize  most 

Did  I  empty  my  bacchanal  breast? 
Did  I  buttonhole  men  I  despise  most, 

And  frown  upon  those  I  like  best? 
Did  I  play  the  low  farmer  and  flunky 

With  people  I  always  ignore? 
Did  I  caracole  round  like  a  monkey? 

Did  I  sit  on  the  floor? 

0  longing  no  research  may  satiate — 

No  aim  to  exhume  what  is  hid ! 
For  falsehood  were  vain  to  expatiate 

On  deeds  more  depraved  than  I  did ; 
And  though  friendly  faith  I  would  flout  not, 

On  this  it  were  rash  to  rely, 
Since  the  friends  who  beheld  me,  I  doubt  not, 

Were  drunker  than  I. 

Thou  hast  lured  me  to  passionate  pastime, 

Dread  goddess,  whose  smile  is  a  snare! 
Yet  I  swear  thou  hast  tempted  me  the  last  tune — 

I  swear  it;  I  mean  what  I  swear! 
And  thy  beaker  shall  always  forebode  a 

Disgust  'twere  not  wise  to  disdain, 
0  luxurious  brandy  and  soda, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain ! 

HUGH  HOWARD. 


56  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

MY  OLD  COMPLAINT  (ITS  CAUSE  AND 
CURE) 

I'm  sadly  afraid  of  my  Old  Complaint — 

Dying  of  thirst. — Not  a  drop  have  I  drunk 
For  more  than  an  hour:     'Tis  too  long  to  wait. 
Wonderful  how  my  spirits  have  sunk! 
Provocation  enough  it  is  for  a  saint, 
To  suffer  so  much  from  my  Old  Complaint ! 

What  is  it  like,  my  Old  Complaint1? 

I'll  tell  you  anon,  since  you  wish  to  know. 
It  troubles  me  now,  but  it  troubled  me  first 
When  I  was  a  youngster,  years  ago ! 
Bubble-and-squeak  is  the  image  quaint 
Of  what  it  is  like,  my  Old  Complaint ! 

The  Herring  in  a  very  few  minutes,  we're  told, 

Loses  his  life,  ta'en  out  of  the  sea ; 
Rob  me  of  wine,  and  you'll  behold 
Just  the  same  thing  happen  to  me. 

Thirst    makes    the    poor    little    Herring    so 

faint ; — 
Thirst  is  the  cause  of  my  Old  Complaint. 

The  bibulous  Salmon  is  ill  content, 

Unless  he  batheth  his  jowl  in  brine : 
And  so,  my  spirits  are  quickly  spent 
Unless  I  dip  my  muzzle  in  Wine! 

Myself  in  the  jolly  old  Salmon  I  paint : — 
Wine  is  the  cure  of  my  Old  Complaint ! 
Give  me  full  bottles  and  no  restraint 
And  little  you'll  hear  of  my  Old  Complaint. 


THE  FORTY  CLASSICS  57 

I  never  indulge  in  fanciful  stuff, 

Or  idly  prate,  if  my  flagon  be  full; 
Give  me  good  Claret,  and  give  me  enough, 
And  then  my  spirits  are  never  dull. 

Give  me  good  Claret  and  no  Constraint; 
And  I  soon  get  rid  of  my  Old  Complaint. 
Herring  and   Salmon  my  friends  will   ac- 
quaint 

With  the  Cause  and  the  Cure  of  my  Old 
Complaint ! 

W.  HARRISON  AINSWORTH. 

(From  "The  Flitch  of  Bacon.") 


,' 

• 

' 
. 


58  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

BEER 

Here 

With  my  beer 
I  sit, 
While  golden  moments  flit. 

Alas! 

They  pass 
Unheeded  by; 
And,  as  they  fly, 

I, 

Being  dry, 

Sit  idly  sipping  here 

My  beer. 

Oh,  finer  far 

Than  fame  or  riches  are 

The  graceful  smoke-wreaths  of  this  cigar! 

Why 

Should  I 

Weep,  wail,  or  sigh? 

What  if  luck  has  passed  me  by? 
What  if  my  hopes  are  dead, 
My  pleasures  fled? 

Have  I  not  still 

My  fill 

Of  right  good  cheer, — • 
Cigars  and  beer? 

Go,  whining  youth, 
Forsooth ! 

Go,  weep  and  wail, 

Sigh  and  grow  pale, 


THE  FORTY  CLASSICS  59 

* 

Weave  melancholy  rhymes 

On  the  old  times, 

Whose  joys  like  shadowy  ghosts  appear, — 
But  leave  me  to  my  beer ! 

Gold  is  dross, 

Love  is  loss; 

So,  if  I  gulp  my  sorrows  down, 
Or  see  them  drown 
In  foamy  draughts  of  old  nut-brown, 
Then  do  I  wear  the  crown 

Without  a  cross ! 

GEORGE  ARNOLD. 


. 


60  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


BUM  VIVIMUS  VIGILAMUS 

Turn  out  more  ale,  turn  up  the  light ; 
I  will  not  go  to  bed  to-night. 
Of  all  the  foes  that  man  should  dread 
The  first  and  worst  one  is  a  bed. 
Friends  I  have  had  both  old  and  young, 
And  ale  we  drank  and  songs  we  sung : 
Enough  you  know  when  this  is  said, 
That,  one  and  all, — they  died  in  bed. 
In  bed  they  died  and  I'll  not  go 
Where  all  my  friends  have  perished  so. 
Go  you  who  glad  would  buried  be, 
But  not  to-night  a  bed  for  me. 

For  me  to-night  no  bed  prepare, 
But  set  me  out  my  oaken  chair. 
And  bid  no  other  guests  beside 
The  ghosts  that  shall  around  me  glide; 
In  curling  smoke-wreaths  I  shall  see 
A  fair  and  gentle  company. 
Though  silent  all,  rare  revellers  they, 
Who  leave  you  not  till  break  of  day. 
Go  you  who  would  not  daylight  see, 
But  not  to-night  a  bed  for  me: 
For  I've  been  born  and  I've  been  wed — 
All  of  man's  peril  comes  of  bed. 

And  I'll  not  seek — whate'er  befall — 
Him  who  unbidden  comes  to  all. 
A  grewsome  guest,  a  lean -jawed  wight — 
God  send  he  do  not  come  to-night! 


THE  FORTY  CLASSICS  61 

But  if  he  do,  to  claim  his  own, 
He  shall  not  find  me  lying  prone; 
But  blithely,  bravely  sitting  up, 
And  raising  high  the  stirrup-cup. 

Then  if  you  find  a  pipe  unfilled, 

An  empty  chair,  the  brown  ale  spilled; 

Well  may  you  know,  though  naught  be  said, 

That  I've  been  borne  away  to  bed. 

CHARLES  HENRY  WEBB. 


' 


62  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


A  BACCHANALIAN  SONG 

Sing!     Who  sings 

To  her  who  weareth  a  hundred  rings? 
Ah,  who  is  this  lady  fine? 
The  Vine,  boys,  the  Vine! 
The  mother  of  mighty  Wine. 
A  roamer  is  she 
O'er  wall  and  tree 
And  sometimes  very  good  company. 

Drink!     Who  drinks 
To  her  who  blushelh  and  never  thinks? 
Ah,  who  is  this  maid  of  thine? 
The  Grape,  boys,  the  Grape! 
0,  never  let  her  escape 
Until  she  be  turned  to  Wine! 
For  better  is  she 
Than  vine  can  be, 
And  very,  very  good  company! 

Dream! — Who  dreams 

Of  the  God  that  governs  a  thousand  streams? 
Ah,  who  is  this  Spirit  fine? 
'Tis  Wine,  boys,  'tis  Wine! 
God  Bacchus,  a  friend  of  mine. 
0  better  is  he 
Than  grape  or  tree 
And  the  best  of  all  good  company. 
"BARRY  CORNWALL."     (BRYAN  W.  PROCTER.) 


THE  FORTY  CLASSICS  63 


FALSTAFF'S  SONG 

Where's  he  that  died  o'  Wednesday? 

What  place  on  earth  hath  he? 
A  tailor's  yard  beneath,  I  wot, 

Where  worms  approaching  be ; 
For  the  wight  that  died  o'  Wednesday, 

Just  laid  the  light  below, 
Is  dead  as  the  varlet  turned  to  clay 

A  score  of  years  ago. 

Where's  he  that  died  o'  Sabba'  day? 

Good  Lord,  I'd  not  be  he! 
The  best  of  days  is  foul  enough 

From  this  world's  fare  to  flee; 
And  the  saint  that  died  o'  Sabba'  day, 

With  his  grave-turf  yet  to  grow, 
Is  dead  as  the  sinner  brought  to  pray 

A  hundred  years  ago. 

Where's  he  that  died  o'  yesterday  ? 

What  better  chance  hath  he 
To  clink  the  can  and  toss  the  pot 

When  this  night's  junkets  be? 
For  the  lad  that  died  o'  yesterday 

Is  just  as  dead — ho!  ho! — 
As  the  whoreson  knave  men  laid  away 

A  thousand  years  ago. 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 


64  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


Seamen  three!     What  men  be  ye? 

Gotham's  three  wise  men  we  be. 

Whither  in  your  bowl  so  free? 

To  rake  the  moon  from  out  the  sea. 

The  bowl  goes  trim.     The  moon  doth  shine. 

And  our  ballast  is  old  wine. — 

And  your  ballast  is  old  wine. 

Who  art  thou  so  fast  adrift? 
I  am  he  they  call  Old  Care. 
Here  on  board  we  will  thee  lift. 
No :     I  may  not  enter  there. 
Whei'efore  so?    'Tis  Jove's  decree, 
In  a  bowl  Care  may  not  be — 
In  a  bowl  Care  may  not  be. 

Fear  ye  not  the  waves  that  roll? 

No:  in  charmed  bowl  we  swim. 

What  the  charm  that  floats  the  bowl? 

Water  may  not  pass  the  brim. 

The  bowl  goes  trim.     The  moon  doth  shine. 

And  our  ballast  is  old  wine. — 

And  your  ballast  is  old  wine. 

THOMAS  LOVE  PEACOCK. 


THE  FORTY  CLASSICS  65 


IF  I  WERE  KING 

If  I  were  king,  my  pipe  should  be  premier. 
The  skies  of  time  arid  chance  are  seldom  clear, 
We   would   inform   them   all   with   bland   blue 

weather. 

Delight  alone  would  need  to  shed  a  tear, 
For  dream  and  deed  should  war  no  more  to- 
gether. 

Art  should  aspire,  yet  ugliness  be  dear; 

Beauty,  the  shaft,  should  speed  with  wit  for 

feather; 

And  love,  sweet  love,  should  never  fall  to  sere, 
If  I  were  king.  6 

But  politics  should  find  no  harbour  near; 
The  Philistine  should  fear  to  slip  his  tether; 
Tobacco  should  be  duty  free,  and  beer; 
In  fact,  in  room  of  this,  the  age  of  leather, 
An  age  of  gold  all  radiant  should  appear, 

If  I  were  king. 
1877.  W.  E.  HENLEY. 


. 


66  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


R-E-M-0-R-S-E 

The  cocktail  is  a  pleasant  drink, 
It's  mild  and  harmless,  I  don't  think. 
When  you've  had  one,  you  call  for  two, 
And  then  you  don't  care  what  you  do. 
Last  night  I  hoisted  twenty-three 
Of  these  arrangements  into  me; 
My  wealth  increased,  I  swelled  with  pride; 
I  was  pickled,  primed  and  ossified. 

R-E-M-0-R-S-E ! 

Those  dry  martinis  did  the  work  for  me; 
Last  night  at  twelve  I  felt  immense; 
To-day  I  feel  like  thirty  cents. 
At  four  I  sought  my  whirling  bed, 
At  eight  I  woke  with  such  a  head ! 
It  is  no  time  for  mirth  or  laughter — 
The  cold,  grey  dawn  of  the  morning  after. 


If  ever  I  want  to  sign  the  pledge, 
It's  the  morning  after  I've  had  an  edge; 
When  I've  been  full  of  the  oil  of  joy 
And  fancied  I  was  a  sporty  boy. 
This  world  was  one  kaleidoscope 
Of  purple  bliss,  transcendent  hope. 
But  now  I'm  feeling  mighty  blue — 
Three  cheers  for  the  W.  C.  T.  U. ! 

R-E-M-0-R-S-E ! 

The  water  wagon  is  the  place  for  me ; 
I  think  that  somewhere  in  the  game, 
I  wept  and  told  my  maiden  name. 


THE  FORTY  CLASSICS  67 

My  eyes  are  bleared,  my  coppers  hot; 
I  try  to  eat,  but  I  can  not; 
It  is  no  time  for  mirth  or  laughter — 
The  cold,  grey  dawn  of  the  morning  after. 

GEORGE  ADE. 


68  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


THE  PORT  OF  REFUGE 

Out  of  the  grog-shop,  I've  stepped  in  the  street. 
Road,  what's  the  matter?  you're  loose  on  your  feet ; 
Staggering,  swaggering,  reeling  about, 
Road,  you're  in  liquor,  past  question  or  doubt. 

Gas-lamps,  be  quiet — stand  up,  if  you  please. 
What  the  deuce  ails  you?  you're  weak  in  the  knees : 
Some  on  your  heads — in  the  gutter,  some  sunk — 
Gas-lamps,  I  see  it,  you're  all  of  you  drunk. 

Angels  and  ministers !  look  at  the  moon — 
Shining  up  there  like  a  paper  balloon, 
Winking  like  mad  at  me:     Moon,  I'm  afraid — 
Now  I'm  convinced — Oh!  you  tipsy  old  jade. 

Here's  a  phenomenon :  look  at  the  stars — 
Jupiter,  Ceres,  Uranus  and  Mars, 
Dancing  quadrilles,  capered,  shuffled,  and  hopped. 
Heavenly  bodies !  this  ought  to  be  stopped. 

Down  come  the  houses!  each  drunk  as  a  king — 
Can't  say  I  fancy  muchihis  sort  of  thing; 
Inside  the  bar,  it  was  safe  and  all  right, 
I  shall  go  back  there,  and  stop  for  the  night. 

R.  VON  MUHLEB. 
Trans,  by  R.  B.  BBOUGH. 


THE  FORTY  CLASSICS  69 


THE  THREE  PIGEONS 

Let  schoolmasters  puzzle  their  brain 

With  grammar  and  nonsense  and  learning, 
Good  liquor,  I  stoutly  maintain, 

Gives  genus  a  better  discerning. 
Let  them  brag  of  their  heathenish  gods, 

Their  Lethes,  their  Styxes  and  Stygians, 
Their  qui's  and  their  queie's  and  their  quods, 

They're  all  but  a  parcel  of  pigeons! 
Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroll! 

When  Methodist  preachers  come  down, 

A-preaching  that  drinking  is  sinful, 
I'll  wager  the  rascals  a  crown 

They  always  preach  best  with  a  skinful. 
But  when  you  come  down  with  your  pence 

For  a  slice  of  their  scurvy  religion, 
I'll  leave  it  to  all  men  of  sense, 

But  you,  my  good  friend,  are  the  pigeon. 
Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroll! 

Then,  come,  put  the  jorum  about, 

And  let  us  be  merry  and  clever, 
Our  hearts  and  our  liquors  are  stout, 

Here's  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons  for  ever! 
Let  some  cry  up  woodcock  or  hare, 

Your  bustards,  your  ducks,  and  your  widgeons, 
But  of  all  the  gay  birds  in  the  air, 

Here's  a  health  to  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons! 
Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroll! 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 
(From  "She  Stoops  to  Conquer.") 


70  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


OLD  NOAH 

Old  Noah,  he  had  an  ostrich  farm,  and  fowls  on 

the  greatest  scale; 
He  ate  his  egg  with  a  ladle  in  an  egg-cup  big  as 

a  pail, 
And  the  soup  he  took  was  Elephant  Soup  and  the 

fish  he  took  was  Whale ; 
But  they  all  were  small  to  the  cellar  he  took  when 

he  set  out  to  sail ; 
And  Noah,  he  often  said  to  his  wife  when  he  sat 

down  to  dine, 
"I  don't  care  where  the  water  goes  if  it  doesn't 

get  into  the  wine." 

The  cataract  of  the  cliff  of  heaven  fell  blinding 

off  the  brink, 
As  if  it  would  wash  the  stars  away  as  suds  go 

down  a  sink, 
The   seven   heavens   came   roaring  down   for  the 

throats  of  hell  to  drink, 
And  Noah,  he  cocked  his  eye  and  said,  "It  looks 

like  rain,  I  think, 
The  water  has  drowned  the  Matterhorn  as  deep 

as  a  Mendip  mine, 
But  I  don't  care  where  the  water  goes  if  it  doesn't 

get  into  the  wine." 

But  Noah  he  sinned,  and  we  have  sinned ;  on  tipsy 

feet  we  trod, 
Till  a  great  big  black  teetotaller  was  sent  to  us 

for  a  rod, 


THE  FORTY  CLASSICS  71 

And  you  can't  get  wine  at  a  P.  S.  A.  or  chapel  or 

Eisteddfod ; 
For  the  Curse  of  Water  has  come  again  because 

of  the  wrath  of  God, 
And  water  is  on  the  Bishop's  board  and  the  Higher 

Thinker's  shrine, 
But  I  don't  care  where  the  water  goes  if  it  doesn't 

get  into  the  wine. 

G.  K.  CHESTERTON. 

(The  Captain's  song  in  "The  Flying  Inn.") 

. 


72  THE  STAG'S  HORN7BOOK 


FEAST  ON  WINE  OR  FAST  ON  WATER 

Feast  on  wine  or  fast  on  water, 

And  your  honor  shall  stand  sure; 
God  Almighty's  son  and  daughter, 

He  the  valiant,  she  the  pure. 
If  an  angel  out  of  heaven 

Brings  you  other  things  to  drink, 
Thank  him  for  his  kind  intentions, 

Go  and  pour  them  down  the  sink. 

Tea  is  like  the  East  he  grows  in, 

A  great  yellow  Mandarin, 
With  urbanity  of  manner, 

And  unconsciousness  of  sin ; 
All  the  women,  like  a  harem, 

At  his  pig-tail  troop  along, 
And,  like  all  the  East  he  grows  in, 

He  is  Poison  when  he's  strong. 

Tea,  although  an  Oriental, 

Is  a  gentleman  at  least ; 
Cocoa  is  a  cad  and  coward, 

Cocoa  is  a  vulgar  beast; 
Cocoa  is  a  dull,  disloyal, 

Lying,  crawling  cad  and  clown, 
And  may  very  well  be  grateful 

To  the  fool  that  takes  him  down. 

As  for  all  the  windy  waters, 

They  were  rained  like  trumpets  down, 

When  good  drink  had  been  dishonoured 
By  the  tipplers  of  the  town. 


THE  FORTY  CLASSICS  73 

When  red  wine  had  brought  red  ruin, 
And  the  death-dance  of  our  times, 

Heaven  sent  us  Soda  Water 
As  a  torment  for  our  crimes. 

G.  K.  CHESTERTON. 

(From  "The  Flying  Inn.") 


74  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


STANZAS   TO   AN  INTOXICATED   FLY 

It's  a  singular  fact  that  whenever  I  order 
My  goblet  of  Guinness  or  bumper  of  Bass, 

Out  of  ten  or  a  dozen  that  sport  round  the  border, 
Some  fly  turns  a  somersault  into  my  glass. 

Ah,  believe  me,  fond  fly,  'tis  excessively  sinful, 
This  habit  which  knocks  even  blue-bottles  up; 

Just  remember  what  Cassio,  on  getting  a  skinful, 
Remark'd  about  every  inordinate  cup. 

Pray  where  is  your  home,  and  0,  how  will  you  get 

there, 

And  what  will  your  wife  and  your  family  think? 
Pray,  now,  shall  you  venture  to  show  the  whole 

set  there 
That  paterfamilias  is  given  to  drink? 

0  think  of  the  moment  when  conscience  returning 
Shall    put   the   brief   pleasures   of  Bacchus   to 

flight; 
When  the  tongue  shall  be  parch'd  and  the  brow 

shall  be  burning, 
And  most  of  to-morrow  shall  taste  of  to-night. 

For  the  toast  shall  be  tough  and  the  tea  shall  be 

bitter, 
And  even  through  breakfast  this  thought  shall 

intrude ; 

That  a  little  pale  brandy  and  seltzer  were  fitter 
For  such  an  occasion  than  animal  food. 

HENRY  S.  LEIGH. 


THE  FORTY  CLASSICS  75 


WASSAIL  SONG 

Bring  us  in  no  brown  bread,  for  that  is  made  of 

bran, 
Nor  bring  us  in  no  white  bread,  for  therein  is  no 

gain: 
But  bring  us  in  good  ale,  and  bring  us  in  good 

ale; 

For  our  blessed  Lady's  sake,  bring  us  in  good 
ale. 

Bring  us  in  no  beef,  for  there  is  many  bones, 
But  bring  us  in  good  ale,  for  that  go'th  down  at 

once: 
And  bring  us  in  good  ale. 

Bring  us  in  no  bacon,  for  that  is  passing  fat, 
But  bring  us  in  good  ale,  and  give  us  enough  of 

that: 
And  bring  us  in  good  ale. 

Bring  us  in  no  mutton,  for  that  is  often  lean, 
Nor  bring  us  in  no  tripes,  for  they  be  seldom 

clean : 
But  bring  us  in  good  ale. 

Bring  us  in  no  eggs,  for  there  are  many  shells, 
But  bring  us  in  good  ale,  and  give  us  nothing  else : 
And  bring  us  in  good  ale. 


76  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Bring  us  in  no  butter,  for  therein  are  many  hairs, 
Nor  bring  us  in  no  pig's  flesh,  for  that  will  make 

us  bears: 
But  bring  us  in  good  ale. 

Bring  us  in  no  puddings,  for  therein  is  all  God's 

good, 
Nor  bring  us  in  no  venison,  for  that  is  not  for 

our  blood: 
But  bring  us  in  good  ale. 

Bring  us  in  no  capon's  flesh,  for  that  is  often 

dear, 
Nor  bring  us  in  no  duck's  flesh,  for  they  slobber 

in  the  mere: 
But  bring  us  in  good  ale,  and  bring  us  in  good 

ale, 

For  our  blessed  Lady's  sake,  bring  us  in  good 
ale. 

ANONYMOUS,  Tudor  Period. 


THE  FORTY  CLASSICS  77 

THE  JOLLY  TOPER 

The  Women  all  tell  me,  I'm  false  to  my  Lass; 
That  I  quit  my  poor  Chloe,  and  stick  to  my  Glass! 
But  to  you,  Men  of  Reason,  my  reasons  I'll  own; 
And  if  you  don't  like  them,  why,  let  them  alone! 

Although  I  have  left  her,  the  truth  I'll  declare! 
I  believs  she  was  good;  and  am  sure  she  was  fair: 
But  goodness  and  charms  in  a  Bumper  I  see, 
That  make  it  as  good  and  as  charming  as  she ! 

My  Chloe  had  dimples  and  smiles,  I  must  own ! 
But   though   she  could   smile;   yet,   in  truth,   she 

could  frown : 

But'  tell  me,  ye  lovers  of  liquor  divine! 
Did  you  e'er  see  a  frown  in  a  Bumper  of  Wine? 

Her  lilies  and  roses  were  just  in  their  prime; 
Yet  lilies  and  roses  are  conquered  by  time! 
But  in  Wine,  from  its  age  such  a  benefit  flows, 
That  we  like  it  the  better,  the  older  it  grows! 

They  tell  me,  my  love  would  in  time  have  been 

cloyed ; 

And  that  beauty's  insipid,  when  once  'tis  enjoyed : 
But  in  Wine  I  both  time  and  enjoyment  defy, 
For  the  longer  I  drink,  the  more  thirsty  am  I ! 

Let  Murders,  and  Battles,  and  History  prove 
The  mischiefs  that  wait  upon  Rivals  in  Love: 


78  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

But  in  drinking,  thank  Heaven !  no  Rival  con- 
tends : 

For  the  more  we  love  liquor,  the  more  we  are 
friends! 

We  shorten  our  days,  when  with  Love  we  engage; 
It  brings  on  diseases,  and  hastens  old  age : 
But  Wine,  from  grim  Death  can  its  votaries  save; 
And  keep  out  t'other  leg,  when  there's  one  in  the 
grave! 

Perhaps,  like  her  Sex,  ever  false  to  their  word, 
She  had  left  me,  to  get  an  estate,  or  a  Lord: 
But  my  Bumper,  regarding  no  titles  nor  pelf, 
Will  stand  by  me,  while  I  can't  stand  by  myself! 

She  too  might  have  poisoned  the  joy  of  my  life 
With  nurses  and  babies,  with  squalling  and  strife, 
But  wine  neither  nurses  nor  babies  can  bring, 
And  a  jolly  big  bottle's  a  mighty  good  thing. 

Then  let  my  dear  Chloe  no  longer  complain ! 
She's  rid  of  her  Lover;  and  I,  of  my  pain! 
For  in  Wine,  mighty  Wine !  many  comforts  I  spy ! 
Should  you  doubt  what  I  say,  take  a  Bumper  and 
try! 

From  "Clio  and  Euterpe." 


. 


THE  FORTY  CLASSICS  79 


BACCHUS  MUST  NOW  HIS  POWER  RESIGN 

Bacchus  must  now  his  power  resign, 

I  am  the  only  god  of  wine: 

It  is  not  fit  the  wretch  should  be 

In  competition  set  with  me, 

Who  can  drink  ten  times  more  than  he. 

Make  a  new  world,  ye  powers  divine, 
Stock  it  with  nothing  else  but  wine; 
Let  wine  its  only  produce  be; 
Let  wine  be  earth  and  air  and  sea — 
And  let  that  wine  be  all  for  me ! 

Let  other  mortals  vainly  wear 
A  tedious  life  in  anxious  care; 
Let  the  ambitious  toil  and  think, 
•      Let  states  and  empires  swim  or  sink — 
My  sole  ambition  is  to  drink! 

HENRY  CAREY  (?). 


THE  JUG 


Four   drunken   maidens   came  from   the   Isle   of 

Wight, 

Drunk  from  Monday  morning  till  Saturday  night; 
When  Saturday  night  came,   they  would  not  go 

out, 
And  the  four  drunken  maidens,  they  pushed  the 

jug  about. 

Old  Song. 


LITTLE  BROWN  JUG 

Ha,  ha,  ha!     'Tis  you  and  me, 
Little  brown  jug,  don't  I  love  thee? 

If  I  had  a  cow  that  gave  such  milk 
I'd  dress  her  in  the  finest  silk, 
Feed  her  on  the  choicest  hay, 
And  milk  her  forty  times  a  day! 

(Incomplete.). 


SONG  OF  A  FALLEN  ANGEL  OVER  A 
BOWL  OF  RUM-PUNCH 

Heap  on  more  coal  there, 

And  keep  the  glass  moving, 
The  frost  nips  my  nose, 

Though  my  heart  glows  with  loving. 
Here's  the  dear  creature, 

No  skylights — a  bumper; 
He  who  leaves  heeltaps 
I  vote  him  a  mumper. 
With  hey  cow  rumble  0, 

Whack!  populorum, 
Merrily,  merry  men, 
Push  round  the  jorum. 
83 


84  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

What  are  Heaven's  pleasures 

That  so  very  sweet  are? 
Singing  from  psalters, 

In  long  or  short  metre. 
Planked  on  a  wet  cloud 

Without  any  breeches, 
Just  like  the  Celtic, 

Met  to  make  speeches. 

With  hey  cow  rumble  0,  etc. 

Wide  is  the  difference, 

My  own  boosing  bullies, 
Here  the  round  punch-bowl 

Heaped  to  the  full  is. 
Then  if  some  wise  one 

Thinks  that  up  "yonder" 
Is  pleasant  as  we  are, 

Why he's  in  a  blunder. 

With  hey  cow  rumble  0,  etc. 

JOHN  WILSON. 


"I  hate  a  drunken  rogue."    SIR  TOBY  BELCH. 


Says  the  old  Obadiah  to  the  young  Obadiah, 
"I  am  drier,  Obadiah,  I  am  drier, 

I  am  drier." 

Says  the  young  Obadiah  to  the  old  Obadiah, 
"I'm  on  fire,  Obadiah,  I'm  on  fire, 
I'm  on  fire." 


THE  JUG  85 


A  DRINKING  SONG 

Faces  prim  and  starched  and  yellow 
Ne'er  would  meet  us  in  the  street, 
If  with  Bacchus,  rare  old  fellow, 

Folks  would  quaff  the  vintage  sweet! 
Round  is  he,  and  glowing  scarlet 

Shines  upon  his  ample  face; 
Each  who  shirks  his  toast's  a  varlet 
Fit  for  only  frills  and  lace! 
Here's  a  cup  to  luck, 
Here's  a  cup  to  folly! 
Here's  a  butt  to  drown  the  slut, 
Tearful  Melancholy! 

If  the  skein  of  life  be  twisted, 
Bacchus  can  the  knot  untie; 
If  Dame  Fortune  grow  close-fisted 
Bacchus  knows  to  win  her  eye. 
Oh,  his  mellow  laugh  and  lusty, 
And  his  nimble  train  of  winks 
Could  unfreeze  the  desert-dusty, 
Moping,  monumental  Sphinx ! 
Here's  a  cup  to  luck, 
Here's  a  cup  to  folly ! 
Tap  a  butt  to  souse  the  slut, 
Damp  old  Melancholy! 

Would  you  sue  to  white-throat  Rosa 
Clink  a  glass  with  Bacchus  first; 

If  it  chance  the  maiden  shows  a 

Black  face,  home  and  drown  the  worst! 


86  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

What?  a  wench  with  wine  to  meddle? 

Many  will,  though  many  pout; — 
Love's  a  tinker — let  him  peddle 
While  we  roar  the  flagon  out! 
Here's  a  cup  to  luck, 
Here's  a  cup  to  folly ! 
Here's  a  butt  to  drench  the  slut, 
Puling  Melancholy ! 

NORMAN  R.  GALE. 


THE  CLINK  OF  THE  ICE 

Notably  fond  of  music,  I  dote  on  a  sweeter  tone 
Than  ever  the  harp  has  uttered  or  ever  the  lute 

has  known: 

When  I  wake  at  five  in  the  morning  with  a  feel- 
ing in  my  head 
Suggestive  of  mild  excesses  before   I  retired  to 

bed; 
When  a  small  but  fierce  volcano  vexes  me  sore 

inside, 
And  my  throat  and  mouth  are  furred  with  a  fur 

that  seemeth  a  buffalo  hide, 
How  gracious  those  dews  of  solace  that  over  my 

senses  fall 
At  the  clink  of  the  ice  in  the  pitcher  the  boy  brings 

up  the  hall! 

Oh,  is  it  the  gaudy  ballet,  with  features  I  cannot 
name, 

That  kindles  in  virile  bosoms  that  slow  but  de- 
vouring flame? 


THE  JUG  87 

Or  is  it  the  midnight  supper,  eaten  before  we  re- 
tire, 

That  presently  by  combustion  setteth  us  all  afire? 

Or  is  it  the  cheery  magnum, — nay,  I'll  not  chide 
the  cup 

That  makes  the  meekest  mortal  anxious  to  whoop 
things  up : 

Yet,  what  the  cause  soever,  relief  comes  when  we 
call,— 

Relief  with  that  rapturous  clinkety-clink  that 
clinketh  alike  for  all. 

I've  dreamt  of  the  fiery  furnace  that  was  one  vast 

bulk  of  flame, 
And  that  I   was  Abednego   a-wallowing  in   that 

same; 
And  I've  dreamt  I  was  a  crater,  possessed  of  a 

mad  desire 
To  vomit  molten  lava,  and  to  snort  big  gobs  of 

fire; 
I've  dreamt  I  was  Roman  candles  and  rockets  that 

fizzed  and  screamed, — 
In  short,  I  have  dreamt  the  cussedest  dream  that 

ever  a  human  dreamed : 
But  all  the  red-hot  fancies  were  scattered  quick 

as  a  wink 
When  the  spirit  within  that  pitcher  went  clinking 

its  clinkety-clink. 

May  blessings  be  showered  upon  the  man  who  first 

devised  this  drink 
That  happens  along  at  five  a.  m.  with  its  raptu-   • 

rous  clinkety-clink! 


88  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

I  never  have  felt  the  cooling  flood  go  sizzling  down 

iny  throat 
But  what  I  vowed  to  hymn  a  hymn  to  that  cliukety- 

clink  devote; 
So  now,  in  the  prime  of  my  manhood,  I  polish 

this  lyric  gem 
For  the  uses  of  all  good  fellows  who  are  thirsty  at 

five  a.  m., 
But  especially  for  those  fellows  who  have  known 

the  pleasing  thrall 
Of  the  clink  of  the  ice  in  the  pitcher  the  boy 

brings  up  the  hall. 

EUGENE  FIELD. 


OLD  NOAH'S  INVENTION 

We  read  that  old  Noah,  soon  after  the  flood, 
Found  out  a  new  liquor  to  quicken  the  blood : 
Of  water  grown  tired  in  his  long  navigation, 
He  hit  on  the  process  of  vinification. 
It  doesn't  appear  that  he  took  out  a  patent. 
But  the  wondrous  discovery  wasn't  long  latent; 
For  Noah,  though  such  might  not  be  his  intention, 
Got  drunk  on  this  very  stupendous  invention. 

And  ever  since  then  we  have  evidence  ample, 
Mankind  has  been  following  Noah's  example: 
Sometimes  they  get  drunk,  and  sometimes  they  do 

not; 
But  the  business  of  drinking  is  seldom  forgot. 


THE  JUG  89 

They  drink  when  they're  merry,  they  drink  when 
they're  sad; 

They  drink  whensoever  good  drink  's  to  be  had. 

What  marriage  or  christening  would  meet  with  at- 
tention 

If  you  didn't  still  practice  this  wondrous  inven- 
tion? 

The  Wine-Cup  may  Poetry  claim  as  a  daughter, 
Though  a  poet  or  two  have  been  drinkers  of  water : 
Good  wine  to  the  wise  is  a  swift  winged  steed, 
While  abstainers  in  general  come  little  speed. 
Would  Homer  or  Horace  have  written  a  line 
Without  plenty  of  Greek  and  Falernian  wine? 
What  were  North  without  Ambrose?  or  who  would 

e'er  mention 
A  Socratic  repast  without  Noah's  invention  ? 

Old  Plato,  the  prince  of  political  sages, 
For  the  uses  of  drinking  his  credit  engages: 
When  pleasure  invites,  if  you'd  learn  self-denial, 
A  convivial  meeting  will  serve  as  a  trial. 
Should  you  wish  to  find  out  if  a  man's  a  good  fel- 
low, 
His    virtues    and   faults   will   appear   when    he's 

mellow : 

To  whatever  good  gifts  he  may  e'er  make  preten- 
sion, 
The  truth  you  can  test  by  old  Noah's  invention. 

Some  folks  would  persuade  us  from  drink  to  ab- 
stain, 
For  they  trace  every  crime  to  that  terrible  bane; 


90  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

But  if  drinking's  a  sin,  yet  I  cannot  help  thinking 
Mankind  have  had  sins  independent  of  drinking, 
And  their  lives  were  no  better — in  fact,  they  were 

worse; 

The  Antediluvians  were  free  from  that  curse, 
And  at  least  you  can't  prove  any  moral  declension 
Since  the  date  when  old  Noah  made  known  his  in- 
vention. 

Then  wisely  partake  of  the  generous  juice, 
But  don't  forfeit  the  boon  by  excess  or  abuse; 
At  your  board  let  the  Muses  and  Graces  be  found, 
And  the  light-hearted  Virtues  still  hover  around. 
And  let  this,  I  beseech  you,  be  one  of  your  rules: 
Never  show  any  folly  in  presence  of  fools ; 
For  the  wise  man  alone  has  a  due  comprehension, 
And  can  make  a  right  use,  of  old  Noah's  invention. 
GEORGE  LORD  NEAVES. 


Come,  ye  jovial  souls,  don't  over  the  bowl  be  sleep- 
ing 

Nor  let  the  grog  go  round  like  a  cripple  creep- 
ing 

If  your  cares  come  up,  in  the  liquor  sink  it, 
Pass  along  the  lush, — I'm  the  boy  can  drink  it. — 
Isn't  that  so,  Mrs.  Mary  Callaghan? 
Isn't  that  so,  Mrs.  Mary  Callaghan? 
CHARLES  LEVER. 

(From  "Charles  (yMalley.") 


THE  JUG  91 


LA  NUIT  BLANCHE 

A  Much-Discerning  Public  hold 
The  Singer  generally  sings 
Of  personal  and  private  things, 

And  prints  and  sells  his  past  for  gold. 

Whatever  I  may  here  disclaim, 
The  very  clever  folk  I  sing  to 
Will  most  indubitably  cling  to 

Their  pet  delusion  just  the  same. 

I  had  seen,  as  dawn  was  breaking 

And  I  staggered  to  my  rest, 
Tari  Devi  softly  shaking 

From  the  Cart  Road  to  the  crest. 
I' had  seen  the  spurs  of  Jakko 

Heave  and  quiver,  swell  and  sink. 
Was  it  Earthquake  or  tobacco, 

Day  of  Doom  or  Night  of  Drink? 

In  the  full,  fresh,  fragrant  morning 

I  observed  a  camel  crawl, 
Laws  of  gravitation  scorning, 

On  the  ceiling  and  the  wall; 
Then  I  watched  a  fender  walking, 

And  I  heard  gray  leeches  sing, 
And  a  red-hot  monkey  talking 

Did  not  seem  the  proper  thing. 

Then  a  creature,  skinned  and  crimson, 
Ran  about  the  floor  and  cried, 


92  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

And  they  said  I  had  the  "jims"  on, 
And  they  dosed  me  with  bromide, 

And  they  locked  me  in  my  bedroom — 
Me  and  one  wee  Blood  Red  Mouse — 

Though  I  said:    "To  give  my  head  room 
You  had  best  unroof  the  house." 

But  my  words  were  all  unheeded, 

though  I  told  the  grave  M.  D. 
That  the  treatment  really  needed 

Was  a  dip  in  open  sea 
That  was  lapping  just  below  me, 

Smooth  as  silver,  white  as  snow, 
And  it  took  three  men  to  throw  me, 

When  I  found  I  could  not  go. 

Half  the  night  I  watch  the  Heavens 

Fizz  like  '81  champagne — 
Fly  to  sixes  and  to  sevens, 

Wheel  and  thunder  back  again; 
And  when  all  was  peace  and  order 

Save  one  planet  nailed  askew, 
Much  I  wept  because  my  warder 

Would  not  let  me  set  it  true. 

After  frenzied  hours  of  waiting, 

When  the  Earth  and  Skies  were  dumb, 
Pealed  an  awful  voice  dictating 

An  interminable  sum, 
Changing  to  a  tangled  story — 

"What  she  said  you  said  I  said — " 
Till  the  Moon  arose  in  glory, 

And  I  found  her  ...  in  my  head; 


THE  JUG  93 

Then  a  Face  came,  blind  and  weeping, 

And  it  couldn't  wipe  Its  eyes, 
And  It  muttered  I  was  keeping 

Back  the  moonlight  from  the  skies; 
So  I  patted  It  for  pity, 

But  It  whistled  shrill  with  wrath, 
And  a  huge  black  Devil  City 

Poured  its  peoples  on  rny  path. 

So  I  fled  with  steps  uncertain 

On  a  thousand  year  long  race, 
But  the  bellying  of  the  curtain 

Kept  me  always  in  one  place; 
While  the  tumult  rose  and  maddened 

To  the  roar  of  Earth  on  fire, 
Ere  it  ebbed  and  sank  and  saddened 

To  a  whisper  tense  as  wire. 

In  intolerable  stillness 

Rose  one  little,  little  star, 
And  it  chuckled  at  my  illness, 

And  it  mocked  me  from  afar; 
And  its  brethren  came  and  eyed  me, 

Called  the  Universe  to  aid, 
Till  I  lay,  with  naught  to  hide  me, 

'Neath  the  Scorn  of  All  Things  Made. 

Dun  and  saffron,  robed  and  splendid, 

Broke  the  solemn,  pitying  Day, 
And  I  knew  my  pains  were  ended, 

And  I  turned  and  tried  to  pray; 
But  my  speech  was  shattered  wholly, 

And  I  wept  as  children  weep, 


94  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Till  the  dawn-wind,  softly,  slowly, 
Brought  to  burning  eyelids  sleep. 

RUDYARD  KIPLING. 


THE  BOTTLE  AND  THE  BIRD 

Once  on  a  time  a  friend  of  mine  prevailed  on  me 

to  go 
To  see  the  dazzling  splendours  of  a  sinful  ballet 

show; 

And  after  we  had  revelled  in  the  saltatory  sights, 
We  sought  a  neighbouring  cafe  for  more  tangible 

delights. 
When  I  demanded  of  my  friend  what  viands  he 

preferred, 
He   quoth :     "A   large   cold   bottle,   and   a   small 

hot  bird." 

Fool  that  I  was,  I  did  not  know  what  anguish 

hidden  lies 
Within  the  morceau  that  allures  the  nostrils  and 

the  eyes! 
There  is  a  glorious  candour  in  an  honest  quart  of 

wine, 

A  certain  inspiration  which  I  cannot  well  define! 
How  it  bubbles,  how  it  sparkles,  how  its  gurgling 

seemed  to  say: 
"Come !  on  a  tide  of  rapture  let  me  float  your 

soul  away!" 
But  the  crispy,  steaming  mouthful  that  is  spread 

upon  your  plate, — 


THE  JUG  95 

How   it   discounts   human  sapience   and   satirizes 

fate! 
You  wouldn't  think  a  thing  so  small  could  cause 

the  pains  and  aches 
That  certainly  accrue  to  him  that  of  that  thing 

partakes; 
To  me,  at  least,  (a  guileless  wight!)  it  never  once 

occurred 
What  horror  was  encompassed  in  that  small  hot 

bird. 

Oh;  what  a  head  I  had  on  me  when  I  awoke  next 
day, 

And  what  a  firm  conviction  of  intestinal  decay! 

What  seas  of  mineral  water  and  of  bromide  I  ap- 
plied 

To  quench  those  fierce  volcanic  fires  that  rioted 
inside! 

And,  oh,  the  thousand  solemn,  awful  vows  I 
plighted  then 

Never  to  tax  my  system  with  a  small  hot  bird 
again. 

The  doctor  seemed  to  doubt  that  birds  could  worry 

people  so, 
But,  bless  him!  since  I  ate  the  bird,  I  guess  I 

ought  to  know ! 

The  aciduous  condition  of  my  stomach,  so  he  said, 
Bespoke  a  vinous  irritant  that  amplified  my  head, 
And,  ergo,  the  causation  of  the  thing,  as  he  in- 
ferred, 
Was  the  large  cold  bottle, — not  the  small  hot  bird.    . 


96  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Of  course,  I  know  it  wasn't,  and  I'm  sure  you'll 

say  I'm  right 
If  ever  it  has  been  your  wont  to  train  around  at 

night. 
How  sweet  is  retrospection  when   one's  heart  is 

bathed  in  wine, 
And  before  its  balmy  breath  how  do  the  ills  of 

life  decline! 
How  the  gracious  juices  drown  what  griefs  would 

vex  a  mortal  breast, 
And    float    the    flattered    soul    into    the    port    of 

dreamless  rest! 

But  you,  O   noxious,  pigmy  bird !  whether  it  be 

you  fly, 
Or  paddle  in  the  stagnant  pools  that  -sweltering, 

festering  lie, 
I  curse  you  and  your  evil  kind  for  that  you  do 

me  wrong, 
Engendering  poisons  that  corrupt  my  petted  muse 

of  song. 
Go,  get  thee  hence !  and  never  more  discomfit  me 

and  mine, 
I  fain  would  barter  all  thy  brood  for  one  sweet 

draught  of  wine ! 

So  hither  come,  0  sportive  youth !  when  fades  the 

telltale  day, — 
Come  hither,  with  your  fillets  and  your  wreaths  of 

posies  gay; 
"We  shall  unloose  the  fragrant  seas  of  seething, 

frothing  wine 
Which  now  the  cobwebbed  glass  and  envious  wire 

and  corks  confine, 


THE  JUG  97 

And  midst  the  pleasing  revelry  the  praises  shall 

be  heard 

Of  the  large  cold  bottle, — not  the  small  hot  bird. 

EUGENE  FIELD. 

(From  the  "Second  Book  of  Verse.") 


"0  the  drinkers,  those  that  are  a-dry,  0  poor 
thirsty  souls !" — RABELAIS. 


"If  I  could  get  up  as  well  as  I  can  swallow 
down,  I  had  been  long  ere  now  very  high  in  the 
air." — RABELAIS. 


DRINK  OF  THIS  CUP 

Drink  of  this  cup — you'll  find  there's  a  spell  in 

Its  every  drop  'gainst  the  ills  of  mortality — 
Talk  of  the  cordial  that  sparkled  for  Helen! 

Her  cup  was  a  fiction,  but  this  is  reality. 
Would  you  forget  the  dark  world  we  are  in, 

Only  taste  of  the  bubble  that  gleams  on  the  top 

of  it; 
But  would  you  rise  above  earth,  till  akin 

To  Immortals  themselves,  you  must  drain  every 

drop  of  it. 
Send  round  the  cup — for  Oh !  there's  a  spell  in 

Its  every  drop  'gainst  the  ills  of  mortality — 
Talk  of  the  cordial  that  sparkled  for  Helen ! 

Her  cup  was  a  fiction,  but  this  is  reality. 


98  THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Never  was  philter  formed  with  such  power 

To  charm  and  bewilder,  as  this  we  are  quaffing; 
Its  magic  began,  when,  in  Autumn's  rich  hour, 
As  a  harvest  of  gold  in  the  fields  it  stood  laugh- 
ing. 

There,  having  by  Nature's  enchantment  been  filled 
With  the  balm  and  the  bloom  of  her  kindliest 

weather, 

This  wonderful  juice  from  its  core  was  distilled, 
To  enliven  such  hearts  as  are  here  brought  to- 
gether. 

Then  drink  of  this  cup,  etc. 

And  though,  perhaps — but  breathe  it  to  no  one — 
Like  cauldrons  the  witch  brews  at  midnight  so 

awful, 
In  secret  this  philter  was  first  taught  to  flow  on, 

Yet — 'tis  not  less  potent  for  being  unlawful. 
What  though  it  may  taste  of  the  smoke  of  that 

flame 

Which  in  silence  extracted  its  virtue  forbidden — 

Fill  up — there's  a  fire  in  some  hearts  I  could  name, 

Which  may  work  too  its  charm,  though  now 

lawless  and  hidden. 

So  drink  of  the  cup — for  Oh !  there's  a  spell  in 
Its  every  drop  'gainst  the  ills  of  mortality — 
Talk  of  the  cordial  that  sparkled  for  Helen ! 
Her  cup  was  a  fiction,  but  this  is  reality. 

THOMAS  MOORE. 


THE  JUG  99 


Crown  Winter  with  green, 
And  give  him  good  drink 
To  physic  his  spleen 
Or  ever  he  think. 

His  mouth  to  the  bowl, 
His  feet  to  the  fire; 
And  let  him,  good  soul, 
No  comfort  desire. 

So  merry  he  be, 
I  bid  him  abide: 
And  merry  be  we 
This  good  Yuletide. 

ROBERT  BRIDGES. 


Wine,  0  wine, 
0  juice  divine! 
How  dost  thou  the  nowle  refine ! 

JOHN  LYLY. 


"What,  said  Gargantua,  to  drink  so  soon  after 
sleep?  This  is  not  to  live  according  to  the  diet 
and  prescript  rule  of  the  physicians.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  well  physicked,  said  the  monk;  a  hundred 
devils  leap  into  my  body,  if  there  be  not  more  old 
drunkards  than  old  physicians!" — RABELAIS. 


100         THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


JOLLY  NOSE 

Jolly  nose !  the  bright  rubies  that  garnish  thy  tip 
Are  dug  from  the  mines  of  Canary; 

Arid  to  keep  up  their  lustre  I  moisten  my  lip 
With  hogsheads  of  claret  and  sherry. 

Jolly  nose!  he  who  sees  thee  across  a  broad  glass 

Beholds  thee  in  all  thy  perfection; 
And  to  the  pale  snout  of  a  temperate  ass 

Entertains  the  profoundest  objection. 

For  a  big-bellied  glass  is  the  palette  I  use, 
And  the  choicest  of  wine  is  my  colour; 

And  I  find  that  mv  nose  takes  the  mellowest  hues 
The  fuller  I  filfit— the  fuller! 

Jolly  nose!  there  are  fools  who  say  drink  hurts 

the  sight; 

Such  dullards  know  nothing  about  it. 
"Pis  better,  with  wine,  to  extinguish  the  light, 
Than  live  always  in  darkness  without  it ! 

WILLIAM   HARRISON   AINSWORTH. 


The  bubble  winked  at  me  and  said: 
"I  wonder  if  you'll  miss  me,  brother,  when  you're 
dead." 

OLIVER  HERFORD. 


THE  JUG  101 

ON  A  FLY  DRINKING  OUT  OF  HIS  CUP 

Busy,  curious,  thirsty  fly! 
Drink  with  me,  and  drink  as  I. 
Freely  welcome  to  my  cup, 
Couldst  thou  sip  and  sip  it  up : 
Make  the  most  of  life  you  may, 
Life  is  short  and  wears  away. 

Both  alike  are  mine  and  thine, 
Hastening  quick  to  their  decline; 
T lane's  a  summer,  mine  no  more, 
Though  repeated  to  threescore. 
Threescore  summers,  when  they're  gone, 
Will  appear  as  short  as  one ! 

WILLIAM  OLDYS. 

- 

- 

A  RULE  OF  THREE 

rn,  •  i        ,         j    -     i 

There  is  a  rule  to  drink, 

T    4V      1 

I  think — 

A  Rule  of  Three 

That  you'll  agree 

With  me 

Cannot  be  beat 

And  tends  our  lives  to  sweeten : 

Drink  ere  you  eat, 

And  while  you  eat, 

And  after  you  have  eaten. 

WALLACE  RICE. 


102          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


THE   DRINKER'S    COMMANDMENTS 

These  ten  commandments  you'll  observe 
If  drink  you'd  master,  and  not  serve. 


First,  study  where  to  draw  the  line: 
If  eight  will  answer,  why  take  nine? 

II 

Of  your  day's  being  learn  the  state: 
Sometimes  three  go  as  far  as  eight. 

Ill 

Dilute  your  liquor  always;  or 
Your  stomach  has  to  go  to  war. 

rv 

Sit  down  and  take  your  time ;  for  know 
The  only  pleasure  's  drinking  so. 


Talk,  jest,  and  laugh :  in  this  way  pass 
The  merry  fumes  of  many  a  glass. 

VI 

Eat  frequently;  with  spells  of  food 
Three  times  the  drink  can  be  withstood. 


THE  JUG  103 

VII 

When  your  head  reels,  then  stop  at  once, 
Or  else  you'll  be  both  sick  and  dunce. 

VIII 

Stay  up  till  calm ;  you'll  feel  next  day 
Much"  better  than  the  other  way, 

IX 

Avoid   hold-overs:   there's  a  road 
May  bring  your  back  too  heavy  a  load. 


And,  if  with  drinking  you  must  brawl, 
For  love  of  Man,  don't  drink  at  all! 

Experience,  bought  with  years  and  pain, 
In  these  brief  maxims  speaks  again. 

WALLACE  RICE. 


Make  me  a  bowl,  a  mighty  bowl, 
Large  as  my  capacious  soul; 
Vast  as  my  thirst  is,  let  it  have 
Depth  enough  to  be  my  grave, 
I  mean  the  grave  of  all  my  care, 
For  I  design  to  bury  it  there. 

JOHN  OLDHAM. 


104          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


INISHOWEN 

I  care  not  a  fig  for  a  flagon  of  flip, 

Or  a  whistling  can  of  ruinbo; 
But  my  tongue  through  whiskey-punch  will  slip 

As  nimble  as  Hurlothrumbo. 
So  put  the  spirits  on  the  board, 

And  give  the  lemons  a  squeezer, 
And  we'll  mix  a  jorum,  by  the  Lord ! 

That   will  make  your   worship  sneeze,  sir. 

The  French,  no  doubt,  are  famous  souls, 

I  love  them  for  their  brandy; 
In  rum  and  sweet  tobacco-rolls 

Jamaica   men    are  handy. 
The  big-breeched  Dutch  in  juniper  gin, 

I  own,  are  very  knowing; 
But  are  rum,  gin,  brandy  worth  a  pin 

Compared  with  Inishowen? 

Though  here  with  a  lord  'tis  folly  and  fine 

To  tumble  down  Lachryma  Christi, 
And  over  a  skin  of  Italy's  wine 

To  get  a  little  misty; 
Yet  not  the  blood  of  the  Bordeaux  grape, 

The  finest  grape-juice  going. 
Nor  clammy  Constantia,  the  pride  of  the  Cape, 

Prefer  I  to  Inishowen, 

WILLIAM  MAGINN. 


THE  JUG  105 


THE    OLD   REPROBATE'S    SONG 

When  I  was  young-  I'd  capacity, 

At  which  I've  lived  to  wonder; 
No  matter  how  long  or  hard  the  spree, 

I'd  drink  still  more,  by  thunder! 
No  matter  what  it  chanced  to  be 

That  made  my  friends  feel  frisky, 
Madeira,  flip,  or  sangaree — 

I'd  go  top  off  on  whiskey ! 

I'd  drink  all  day  and  drink  all  night, 

The  morn  and  evening  after — 
I  often  did — and  in  despite 

Arose  betimes  with  laughter; 
My  stomach  like  a  cask  was  sound, 

My  head  loved  stormy  weather; 
Drink  by  the  quart,  food  by  the  pound, 

I'd  take  for  mouths  together. 

I  can't  drink  now  as  I  did  then; 
But  still  I  like  a  snifter. 

vr          i  T>  t 

No  glass  1  ve  seen,  no  matter  when, 
But  my  elbow  bent  to  lift  her. 

My  furrowed  brow  is  what  you  see, 
My  top  with  snow  is  sprinkled — 

And  it's  0  for  my  old  capacity, 
Unf rested  and  un wrinkled ! 

And  now  I'm  old  perhaps  I  ought 

To  sorrow  for  such  vices, 
But  I  love  to  think  I  held  as  naught 

Such   alcoholic   crises. 


106          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

My  constitution  unimpaired, 

I  sit  here  slyly  blinking, 
And  chuckling  o'er  how  once  they  stared 

At  how  much  I  once  was  drinking. 

OLIVER  MARBLE. 


'Tis  pity  wine  should  b'e  so  deleterious, 
For  tea  and  coffee  leave  us  much  more  serious. 

BYRON. 


THE  SNAKES 

These  are  the  snakes  that  Rowdy  saw: 

Some  were  green  and  some  were  white, 
Some  were  black  as  the  spawn  of  night; 

Some  were  yellow; 

And  one  big  fellow 
Had  monstrous  blotches  of  angry  red, 
And  a  scarlet  welt  on  his  slimy  head; 
And  other  snakes  that  Rowdy  saw 

Were  of  every  hue 

From  pink  to  blue, 
And  the  longer  he  looked  the  bigger  they  grew! 

An  old  he-snake  with  a  frowzy  head 
Was  one  of  the  snakes  that  Rowdy  saw. 
This  old  he-snake  he  grinned  and  leered 
When  he  saw  that  Rowdy  was  afeard; 


THE  JUG  107 

And  he  ran  out  his  tongue  in  frightful  wise 
As  he  batted  his  fireless  dead-fish  eyes; 
And  he  lashed  his  tail 
In  the  moonlight  pale, 

And  he  tickled  his  jaw  with  his  left  hind  paw — 
Did  this  old  he-snake  that  Rowdy  saw! 

These  hideous  snakes  that  Rowdy  saw 
Wriggled  and  twisted 
Wherever  they  listed, 
Straightway  glided 
Or  ambled  one-sided. 
There  were  some  of  those  things 
That  had  fiery  wings — 
Yes,  some  of  the  snakes  that  Rowdy  saw 
Hummed  round  in  the  air 
With  their  eyeballs  aglare 
And  their  whiskers  aflare; 
And  they  hissed  their  approval  of  Rowdy's  de- 


spair 


And  some  of  the  snakes  that  Rowdy  saw 

Had  talons  like  bats, 
And   looked   like   a    cross   between   buzzards   and 

rats ! 
They  crawled  from  his  boots,  and  they  sprawled 

on  the  floor; 

They  sat  on  the  mantel,  and  perched  on  the  door, 
And  grinned  all  the  fiercer  the  louder  he  swore! 

Out,  out  of  his  boots 
Came  the  damnable  brutes — 
These  murdersome  snakes  that  Rowdy  saw ! 


108          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Strange  cries  they  uttered, 
And  poison  they  sputtered 
As  they  crawled  or  they  fluttered. 

This  way  and  that 

Their  venom  they  spat, 
Till  Kowdv  had  doubts  as  to  where  he  was  at. 


They    twined    round    his    legs,    and    encircled    his 

waist ; 

His  arms  and  his  neck  and  his  breast  they  em- 
braced ; 

They  hissed  in  his  ears,  and  they  spat  in  his  eyes, 
And  with  their  foul  breaths  interrupted  his  cries. 

Blue  serpents  and  green, 
Red,  yellow,  and  black 
Of  as  hideous  mien 
As  ever  was  seen, 
Girt  him  round,  fore  and  back, 
And  higgling 
And  wriggling, 
With  their  slimy  and  grimy  preponderance  they 

bore 

Rowdy    down    to    the    floor.     He    remembers    im 
more. 


The  sequel  is  this :     The  snakes  that  he  saw 
Were  such  hideous  snakes,   were  such  torture- 
some  things, 

With  their  poison-tipped  fangs  and  their  devil- 
claw  wings, 

That  he  speaks  of  them  now  with  a  meaningful 
awe; 


THE  JUG  109 

And  when  in  the  bar-room  the  bottle  goes  round, 
And  wassail  and  laughter  and  "boodle"  abound, 

Poor  Rowdy  he  turns  down  his  glass  with  a  sigh. 
"Come,  Rowdy,  drink  hearty !"  the  aldermen  cry. 
His  palate  is  yearning,  his  fauces  are  dry, 
The  bottle  appeals  to  his  gullet  and  eye; 

But  he  thinks  of  the  snakes,  and — he  lets  it  go  by. 

EUGENE  FIELD. 


FILL   THE   GOBLET   AGAIN! 

Fill  the  goblet  again !  for  I  never  before 

Felt  the  glow  that  now  gladdens  my  heart  to  its 

core ; 
Let    us   drink! — who   would   not? — since   through 

life's  varied  round 
In  the  goblet  alone  no  deception  is  found. 

I  have  tried  in  its  tuni  all  that  life  can  supply; 
I  have  basked  in  the  beam  of  a  dark  rolling  eye; 
I  have  loved! — who  has  not? — but  what  heart  can 

declare, 
That  pleasure  existed  whilst  passion  was  there? 

In  the  bright  days  of  youth,  when  the  heart's  in 

its  spring, 

And  dreams  that  affection  can  never  take  wing, 
I  had  friends! — who  has  not? — but  what  tongue 

will  avow 
That  friends,  rosy  wine,  are  so  faithful  as  thou? 


110          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

The  heart  of  a  mistress  some  boy  may  estrange; 
Friendship  shifts  with  the  sunbeam, — thou  never 

canst  change; 
Thou  grow'st  old — who  does  not1? — but  on  earth 

what  appears, 
Whose  virtues,  like  thine,  still  increase  with  its 

years? 

Yet  if  blest  to  the  utmost  that  love  can  bestow, 
Should  a  rival  bow  down  to  our  idol  below, 
We  are  jealous — who's  not? — thou  hast  no  such 

alloy; 

For  the  more  that  enjoy  thee,  the  more  they  en- 
joy- 
Then   the  season  of  youth   and  its  vanities   past, 
For  refuge  we  fly  to  the  goblet  at  last ; 
There  we  find — do  we  not? — in  the  flow  of  the 

soul, 
That  truth,  as  of  yore,  is  confined  to  the  bowl. 

When  the  box  of  Pandora  was  opened  on  earth, 
And  Misery's  triumph  commenced  over  Mirth, 
Hope  was  left — was  she  not? — but  the  goblet  we 

kiss, 
And  care  not  for  Hope  who  are  certain  of  bliss. 

Long  life  to  the  grape!  for  when  summer  is  flown, 
The  age  of  our  nectar  shall  gladden  our  own ; 
We  must  die — who  shall  not? — may  our  sins  be 

forgiven, 
And  Hebe  shall  never  be  idle  in  heaven ! 

LORD  BYRON. 


THE  JUG  111 


SIR  TOBY 

As  Sir  Toby  reel'd  home,  with  his  skin  full  of 

wine, 
To  his  house  in  Square,  from  his  friends 

at  the  Vine, 
He  snuffed  the  fresh  air,  and  his  noddle  turned 

round : 
He   staggered, — but    gained   not    an   inch   of   his 

ground. 
"Get  home!"  quoth  the  knight:   "why  this  ne'er 

can  do, 
If  for  one  step  gained  forward,  I  backward  reel 

two. 

I'll  return  to  the  Vine." — So,  as  one  may  suppose, 
Sir  Toby  intended  to  follow  his  nose. 
But  this  retrograde  knight  ne'er  alter'd  his  pace, 
And   gaining   ground   backwards,   found   out   the 

right  place. 

The  sot's  mathematicks  at  last  did  prevail, 
And  Sir  Toby  steer'd  home  by  the  help  of  his  tail. 

From    Oldys'    Collection    of  Epigrams. 

"Fetch  me  Ben  Jonson's  skull,  and  fill't  with  sack, 
Rich  as  the  same  he  drank,  when  the  whole  pack 
Of  jolly  sisters  pledged  and  did  agree 
It  was  no  sin  to  be  as  drunk  as  he!" 


112          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


AN   EPITAPH 

While  life  was  mine,  the  little  hour 

In   drinking  still   unvaried   flew; 
I  drank  as  earth  imbibes  the  shower, 

Or  as  the  rainbow  drinks  the  dew, 
As  ocean  quaffs  the  rivers  up, 

Or  flushing  sun  inhales  the  sea; 
Silenus  trembled  at  my  cup, 

And  Bacchus  was  out-done  by  me. 

THOMAS  MOORE. 
(After  the  Greek.) 


ODE   FOR   A    SOCIAL   MEETING 

With  Slight  Alterations  by  a  Teetotaller. 

Come !  fill  a  fresh  bumper,  for  why  should  we  go 

logwood 

While  the  nectar  still  reddens  our  cups  as  they 
flow. 

decoction 
Pour  out  the  rich  juices  still  bright  with  the  sun, 

dye-stuff 
Till  o'er  the  brimmed  crystal  the  rubies  shall  run. 

half-ripened  apples 

The   purple   globe  clusters   their   life   dews  have 
bled; 


THE  JUG  113 

taste  sugar  of  lead 

How  sweet  is  the  breath  of  the  fragrance  they 
shed; 

rank  poisons  wines!!! 

For  summer's  last  roses  lie  hid  in  the  wines 

stable-boys          smoking 
That    were    garner'd    by    maidens    who    laughed 

long-nines 
through  the  vines. 

scowl  howl  scoff  sneer 

Then  a  smile,  and  a  glass,  and  a  toast,  and  a  cheer, 

strychnine  and  whisky  and  ratsbane  and  beer 
For  all  (he  good  wine,  and  we've  some  of  it  here 

In  cellar,  in  pantry,  in  attic,  in  hall, 

Down,  doicn  with  the  tyrant  that  masters  us  all! 
Long  live  the  gay  servant  that  laughs  at  us  all. 
OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


"SHALLOW.  By  the  mass,  you'll  crack  a  quart 
together,  ha!  will  you  not,  Master  Bardolph? 

BARDOLPH.     Yes,  sir,  in  a  pottle-pot. 

SHALLOW.  By  God's  liggens,  I  thank  thee." — 
King  Henry  IV,  Part  II,  Act  V,  Sc.  iii. 


114          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


DRINKING   SONG   OF   MUNICH 

Sweet  Iser!  were  thy  sunny  realm 

And  flowery  gardens  mine, 
Thy  waters  I  would  shade  with  elm 

To  prop  the  tender  vine; 
My  golden  flagons  I  would  fill 
With  rosy  draughts  from  every  hill ; 

And  under  every  myrtle  bower 
My  gay  companions  should  prolong 
The  laugh,  the  revel,  and  the  song 

To  many  an  idle  hour. 

Like  rivers  crimsoned  with  the  beam 

Of  yonder  planet  bright, 
Our  balmy  cups  should  ever  stream 

Profusion  of  delight; 
No  care  should  touch  the  mellow  heart, 
And  sad  or  sober  none  depart ; 

For  wine  can  triumph  over  woe, 
And  Love  and  Bacchus,  brother  powers, 
Could  build  in  Iser's  sunny  bowers 

A  paradise  below. 

THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 


Fill  the  bumper  fair ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O'er  the  brow  of  Care 

Smoothes  away  a  wrinkle. 

THOMAS  MOORE. 


THE  JUG  115 


DAY  AND  NIGHT 

Day  and  night  my  thoughts  incline 
To  the  blandishments  of  wine : 
Jars  were  made  to  drain,  I  think, 
Wine,  I  know,  was  made  to  drink. 

When  I  die  (the  day  be  far!) 
Should  the  potters  make  a  jar 
Out  of  this  poor  clay  of  mine, 
Let  the  jar  be  filled  with  wine ! 

R.  H.  STODDARD. 


"Ah  well,  my  friend,  I  have  seen  many  a  pleas- 
ant party  round  a  table,  but  never  round  a  pump." 


IN  JAPAN 

At  the  punch-bowl's  brink, 

Let  the  thirsty  think 

What  they  say  in  old  Japan : 

First  the  man  takes  a  drink; 
Then  the  drink  takes  a  drink; 
Then  the  drink  takes  the  man. 

EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL. 


"Doth  it  not  show  vilely  in  me  to  desire  small 
beer  9"— King  Henry  7F/Part  II,  Act.  II,  Sc.  ii. 


116          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


ROSY  WINE 

My  Mistress'  frowns  are  hard  to  bear, 
And  yet  I  will  not  quite  despair; 
Nor  think,  because  her  lips  I  leave, 
There's  nothing  for  me  but  to  grieve. 
— The  goblet's  lip  awaiteth  mine: 
My  grief  I  quench  in  rosy  wine. 

Dame  Fortune  too  has  faithless  gone: 
But  let  her  go!     I  will  not  moan. 
Draw  in  your  chair,  old  Friend !  and  see 
What  rating  Fortune  has  from  me. 
Clink  yet  again  your  glass  with  mine, — 
To  Fortune's  health,  in  rosy  wine ! 

Pass,  Fortune!  pass,  thou  fickle  jade! 
One  fortunately  constant  maid 
Smiles  on  me  yet;  though  loves  depart, 
Her  presence  gladdeneth  my  heart, 
Thy  tendrils  cling,  0  loving  Vine ! 
My  griefs  I  quench  in  rosy  wine. 

W.  J.  LINTON. 


Good   claret  best  keeps  out  the  cauld, 
And  drives  away  the  winter  soon ; 

It  makes  a  man  baith  gash  and  bauld, 
And  heaves  his  saul  beyont  the  moon. 

ALLAN  RAMSAY. 


THE  JUG  117 


WEIN  GEIST 

I  stoompled  ou.d  ov  a  dafern, 

Berauscht  mit  a  gallon  of  wein, 
Und  I  rooshed  along  de  strassen, 

Like  a  derriple  Eberschwein. 

Und  like  a  lordly  boar-big, 

I  doomplet  de  soper  folk; 
Und  I  trowed  a  shtone  droo  a  shdreed  lamp, 

Und  bot'  of  de  classes  I  proke. 

Und  a  gal  vent  roonin'  bast  me, 

Like  a  vild  coose  on  de  vings, 
Boot  I  gatch  her  for  all  her  skreechin', 

Und  giss  her  like  efery  dings.    . 

Und  denn  mit  an  board  und  a  parell, 

I  blay  de  horse-viddle  a  biece, 
Dill     de     neighbours     shkreem     "deaf!"     und 
"murder !" 

Und  holler  aloudt  "bolice !" 

Und  vhen  der  crim  night  waechter 
Says  all  of  dis  foon  moost  shtop, 

I  oop  mit  mein  oomberella, 
Und  schlog  him  ober  de  kop. 

I  leaf  him  like  tead  on  de  bavemend, 

Und  roosh  droo  a  darklin'  lane, 
Dill  rnoonlighd  und  tisdand  musik 

Pring  me  roundt  to  my  soul  again. 


118          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Und  I  sits  all  oonder  de  linden, 

De  hearts-leaf  linden   dree; 
Und  I  dink  of  de  quick  gevanisht  lofe 
"  Dat  vent  like  de  vind  from  me. 
Und  I   voonders  in  mein   dipsyhood, 
If  a  damsel  or  dream  vas  she ! 

"HANS  BREITMANN." 
(CHARLES  GODFREY  LELAND.) 

( Incomplete. ) 


"A  man  cannot  make  him  laugh;  but  that's  no 

marvel,  he  drinks  no  wine." 

• 


Bottle,   whose   Mysterious  Deep 
Does  ten  thousand  Secrets  keep, 
With  attentive  Ear  I  wait; 
Ease  my  mind,  and  speak  my  Fate. 
Soul  of  Joy!     Like  Bacchus,  we 
More  than  India  gain  by  thee. 
Truths  unborn  thy  Juice  reveals, 
Which  Futurity  conceals. 
Antidote  to  Frauds  and  Lies, 
Wine,  that  mounts  up  to  the  Skies, 
May  thy  Father  Noah's  Brood 
Like  him  drown,  but  in  thy  Flood. 
Speak,  so  may  the  Liquid  Mine 
Of  Rubies,  or  of  Diamonds  shine. 


THE  JUG  119 

Bottle,  whose  Mysterious  Deep 
Does  ten  thousand  Secrets  keep, 
With  attentive  Ear  I  wait; 
Ease  my  Mind,  and  speak  my  Fate. 

FRANCOIS  RABELAIS. 


From  the  KUBAIYAT  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM 

ii 

Before  the  phantom  of  False  morning  died, 
Methought  a  Voice  within  the  Tavern  cried, 
"When   all  the  Temple  is  prepared  within, 
Why  nods  the  drowsy  Worshipper  outside?" 


in 

And,  as  the  Cock  crew,  those  who  stood  before 
The  Tavern  shouted — "Open  then  the  Door! 

You  know  how  little  while  we  have  to  stay, 
And,  once  departed,  may  return  no  more." 


Iram  indeed  is  gone  with  all  his  Rose, 

And   Jamshyd's   Sev'n-ring'd   Cup  where  no  one 

knows ; 

But  still  a  Ruby  kindles  in  the  Vine, 
And  many  a  Garden  by  the  Water  blows. 


120          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

VI 

And  David's  lips  are  locked;  but  in  divine 
High-piping  Pehlevi,  with  "Wine  !   Wine  !  Wine  ! 
Red  Wine!"  —  the  Nightingale  cries  to  the  Rose 
That  sallow  cheek  of  hers  to'  incarnadine. 

XXI 

Ah,  my  Beloved,  fill  the  Cup  that  clears 
TO-DAY  of  past  Regrets  and  future  Fears: 
To-morrow!  —  Why,    To-morrow    I    may    be 
Myself  with   Yesterday's   Sev'n   Thousand  Years. 

LIV 

Waste  not  your  Hour,  nor  in  the  vain  pursuit 
Of  This  and  That  endeavour  and  dispute; 
Better  be  jocund  with  the  fruitful  Grape 
Than  sadden  after  none,  or  bitter,  Fruit. 


You  know,  my  Friends,  with  what  a  brave  Ca- 

rouse 
I  made  a  Second  Marriage  in  my  house  ; 

Divorced  old  barren  Reason  from  my  Bed, 
And  took  the  Daughter  of  the  Vine  to  Spouse. 


For  "IS"  and  "IS-NOT"  though  with  Rule  and 

Line 

And  "UP-AND-DOWN"  by  Logic  I  define, 
Of  all  that  one  should  care  to  fathom,  I 
Was  never  deep  in  anything  but  —  Wine. 


THE  JUG  121 


LVIII 


And  lately,  by  the  Tavern  Door  agape, 

Came  shining:  through  the  Dusk  an  Angel- Shape 

Bearing  a  Vessel  on  his  Shoulder;  and 
He  bid  me  taste  of  it;  and  'twas — the  Grape! 


LIX 

The  Grape  that  can  with  Logic  absolute 
The  Two-and-Seventy  jarring  Sects  confute: 

The  sovereign  Alchemist  that  in  a  trice 
Life's  leaden  metal  into  Gold  transmute: 

LX 

The  mighty  Mahmud,  Allah-breathing  Lord, 
That  all  the  mis-believing  and  black  Horde 

Of  Fears  and  Sorrows  that  infest  the  Soul 
Scatters  before  him  with  his  whirlwind  Sword. 

LXI 

Why,  be  this  Juice  the  growth  of  God,  who  dare 
Blaspheme  the  twisted  tendril  as  a  Snare? 

A  Blessing,  we  should  use  it,  should  we  not? 
And  if  a  Curse — why,  then,  Who  set  it  there? 

LXXIV 

YESTERDAY  This  Day's  Madness  did  prepare; 

TO-MORROW'S    Silence,   Triumph,   or   Despair: 

Drink !  for  you  know  not  whence  you  came,  nor 

why: 
Drink !  for  you  know  not  why  you  go,  nor  where. 


122          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

LXXV 

I  tell  you  this — When  started  from  the  Goal 
Over  the  flaming  shoulders  of  the  Foal 

Of  Heav'n  Parwin  and  Mushtari  they  flung, 
In  my  predestined  Plot  of  Dust  and  Soul. 

LXXVI 

The  Vine  had  struck  a  fibre:  which  about 
If  clings  my  Being — let  the  Dervish  flout; 

Of  my  Base  metal  may  be  filed  a  Key 
That  shall  unlock  the  Door  he  howls  without. 

LXXVII 

And  this  I  know:  whether  the  one  True  Light 
Kindle  to  Love,  or  Wrath-consume  me  quite, 
One  Flash  of  It  within  the  Tavern  caught 
Better  than  in  the  Temple  lost  outright. 

xcv 

And  much  as  Wine  has  played  the  Infidel, 
And  robbed  me  of  my  Robe  of  Honour, — Well, 

I  wonder  often  what  the  Vintners  buy 
One  half  so  precious  as  the  stuff  they  sell. 

Translation  of  EDWARD  FITZGERALD. 


Within   this  goblet,  rich  and  deep, 
I  cradle  all  my  woes  to  sleep. 

THOMAS  MOORE. 


THE  JUG  123 


From  the  RUBAIYAT  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM 

Poor  homeless  men  that  have  no  other  home, 
Unto  the  wine-shop  early  are  we  come, 

Since    darkling    dawn    have    we    been    waiting 

here, 
Waiting  and  waiting  for  the  day  to  come. 

For  some  have  love,  some  gold,  and  some  have 

fame, 
But  we  have  nothing,  least  of  all  a  name, 

Nothing  but  wine,  yet  ah !  how  much  to  say, 
Nothing  but  wine — yet  happy  all  the  same  .  .  . 

The  wine-cup  is  a  wistful  magic  glass, 
Wherein  all  day  old  faces  smile  and  pass, 

Dead  lips  press  ours  upon  its  scented  brim, 
Ol'd  voices  whisper  many  a  sweet  "alas!"  .  .  . 

There  are  no  sorrows  wine  cannot  allay, 
There  are  no  sins  wine  cannot  wash  away, 

There  are  no  riddles  wine  knows  not  to  read, 
There  are  no  debts  wine  is  too  poor  to  pay  .  .  . 

Sunday  is  good  for  drinking,  Monday  too, 
Nor  yet  on  Tuesday  put  the  wine  from  you, 
Wednesday  drink  deep,   Thursday  nor  Friday 

fail- 
On  Saturday  is  nothing  else  to  do. 

The  sixtieth  cup  makes  me  so  wise  with  wine, 
A  thousand  riddles  clear  as  crystal  shine, 

And  much  I  wonder  what  it  can  have  been 
That  used  to  puzzle  this  poor  head  of  mine. 


124      'THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Yet  with  the  mom,  the  wine-deserted  brain 
Sees  all  its  riddles  trooping-  back  again; 

Say,  am  I  sober  when  I  see  nought  clear? 
And  am  I  drunk  when  I  see  all  things  plain? 
Translation  of  RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE. 


Drink  up 
Your  cup, 

But  not  spill  Wine; 
For  if  you 

Do, 
'Tis  an  ill  sign. 

ROBERT  HERRICK. 


MYNHEER   VAN   DUNCK 

Mynheer  Van  Dunck,  though  he  never  was  drunk, 
Sipped  brandy  and  water  gayly; 
And  he  quenched  his  thirst 
With  two  quarts  of  the  first 
To  a  pint  of  the  latter  daily, 

Singing1,  "0  that  a  Dutchman's  draught  could  be 
As  deep  as  the  rolling  Zuyder  Zee!" 

Water,  well  mingled  with  spirits  good  store, 
No  Hollander  dreams  of  scorning; 


THE  JUG  125 

But  of  water  alone  he  drinks  no  more 
Than  a  rose  supplies 
When  a  dew-drop  lies 
On  its  bloom  in  a  summer's  morning. 
For  a  Dutchman's  draught  should  potent  be, 
Though  deep  as  the  rolling  Zuyder  Zee. 

GEORGE  COLMAN  THE  YOUNGER. 


Now  fill  your  glasses  ane  an'  a' 
And  drink  the  toast  I  gie  ye,  0, 

"To  meiry  duels  and  lasses  braw, 
And  every  joy  be  wi'  ye,  0." 
Fair  fa'  the  whiskey,  0, 
Fair  fa'  the  whiskey,  0, 
What  wad  a  droutliy  body  do, 
If  'twere  nae  for  the  whiskey,  0? 

D.  HENDERSON. 


PLANTATION   DRINKING   SONG 

De  ladies  in  de  parlour, 
Hey,  come  a  rollin'  down! 
A-drinkin'  tea  an'  coffee, 
Good-mornin',  ladies  all! 

De  gemmen  in  de  kitchen, 
Hey  come  a  rollin'  down! 
A-drinkin'  brandy  toddy, 
Good-mornin',  ladies  all! 


126          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


THE  SWALLOWS 

(The  Prince  of  Wales  came  into  Brooke's  one 
day,  and  complained  of  cold,  but  after  drinking 
three  "lasses  of  brandy  and  water,  said  he  felt 
comfprtable.) 

The  prince  came  in  and  said  'twas  cold, 
Then  put  to  his  head  the  rummer, 

Till  swallow  after  swallow  came, 
When  he  pronounced  it  summer. 

R.  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 


Here's  to  a  temperance  supper, 
'With  water  in  glasses  tall, 

And  coffee  and  tea  to  end  with — 
And  me  not  there  at  all. 


THE  EMPTY  BOTTLE 

Ah,  liberty!  how  like  thou  art 
To  this  large  bottle  lying  here, 

Which  yesterday  from  foreign  mart, 
Came  filled  with  potent  English  beer! 

A  touch  of  steel — a  hand — a  gush — 
A  pop  that  sounded  far  and  near — 


THE  JUG  127 

A  wild  emotion — liquid  rush — 

And  I  bad  drunk  that  English  beer! 

And  what  remains? — An  empty  shell! 

A  lifeless  form  both  sad  and  queer, 
A  temple  where  no  god  doth  dwell — 

The  simple  memory  of  beer! 

WILLIAM  E.  AYTOUN. 


Say,  why  did  Time 

His  glass  sublime 

Fill  up  with  sand  unsightly, 

When  wine,  he  knew, 

Runs  brisker  through 

And  sparkles  far  more  brightly? 


I  wish  I  had  a  barrel  of  rum 
And  sugar  three  hundred  pound, 
With  the  chapel  bell  to  put  it  in 
And  the  clapper  to  stir  it  'round. 
I'd  drink  to  the  health  of  Nassau,  boys, 
And  the  girls  both  far  and  near, 
For  I'm  a  rambling  rake  of  poverty, 
And  a  son  of  a  Gambolier. 


128          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

God  made  man 

Frail  as  a  bubble, 
God  made  Love, 

Love  made  trouble. 
God  made  the  Vine, 

Was  it  any  sin 
That  man  made  wine 

To  drown  trouble  in? 

OLIVER  HERFORD. 


WHY  NOT? 

There  was  a  young  man  who  said:  "Why 
Can't  I  drink  this  good  wine  with  my  eye1? 

It  is  now  on  my  clothes, 

In  my  hair,  up  my  nose — 
Well,  you  never  can  tell  till  you  try." 

ANONYMOUS. 


Good  friends,  when  Care  assails  a  man 

To  vex  his  soul  and  body, 
I  think   it  much  the  wisest  plan 

To  drown  it — in  a  toddy! 

BERANGER. 

Translated   by   SAXE. 


THE  JUG  129 

Which  is  the  properest  day  to  drink — 

Saturday,   Sunday,   Monday? 
Each  is  the  properest  day,  I  think, 

Why  should  I  name  but  one  day? 

ARNE. 


When  that  Saint  George  hadde  sleyne  ye  draggon, 
He  sate  him  down  furninst  a  flaggon; 

And,  wit  ye  well, 

Within  a  spell 
He  hadde  a  bien  plaisaunt  jagge  on. 


Take  the  glass  away: — 

I  know  I  hadn't  oughter: — 

I'll  take  a  pledge — I  will — 
I  never  will  drink  water. 

FRENCH. 


A  small  glass,  and  thirsty! 
Be  sure  never  ask  it: 
Man  might  as  well  serve  up 
His  soup  in  a  basket. 

LEIGH  HUNT. 


130          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Fill  up  the  bowl,  upon  my  soul, 
Your  troubles  you'll  forget,  sir, 
If  it  takes  more,  fill  twenty  score, 
Till  you  have  drowned  regret,  sir. 

ALFRED  BREUN. 


THE  MERRY  MEN 


The  wise  men  they  were  seven, 
I  wish  they  were  more  for  me, 
The  muses  they  were  nine, 
The  worthies  three  times  three: 
And  three  merry  boys  and  three  merry  boys, 
.  And  three  merry  boys  are  we. 
An  Old  Catch,  from  "Merry  Drollery."  1691. 


To  HENRY  McCULLOUGH 

If  ever  I  go  singing  a  song 

I  pray  that  I  may  sing 
Not    quite    too    cheerlessly    of    life 

And  love  and  everything. 

And  if  ever  I  go  printing  a  book 

I  pray  that  it  may  be 
A  book  of  gentle,  merry  songs 

To  cheer  my  friends  and  me. 

JOHN  McCLURE. 


HEY,  CA'  THRO' 

We  hae  tales  to  tell 

An'  we  hae  sangs  to  sing; 

We  hae  pennies  to  spend, 
An'  we  hae  pints  to  bring. 

Hey,  Ca'  thro',  ca'  thro', 

For  we  hae  mickle  ado; 
Hey,  ca'  thro',  ca'  thro', 

For  we  hae  mickle  ado. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


"Gallants,    lads,    boys,   hearts   of  gold,   all    the 
titles  of  goodfellowship  come  to  you !" — FALSTAFF. 


LARRY  O'TOOLE 

You've  all  heard  of  Larry  O'Toole, 
Of  the  beautiful  town  of  Drumgoole; 
He  had  but  one  eye, 
To  ogle  ye  by — 
Oh,  murther,  but  that  was  a  jew'l! 

A  fool 

He  made  of  de  girls,  did  OToole. 
133 


134         THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

'Twas  he  was  the  boy  didn't  fail, 
That  tuck  down  pataties  and  mail; 

He  never  would  shrink 

From   any   sthrong  dhrink, 
Was  it  whiskey  or  Drogheda  ale; 

I'm  bail 
This  Larry  would  swallow  a  pail. 

Oh,  many  a  night  at  the  bowl, 
With  Larry  I've  sot  cheek  by  jowl; 
He's  gone  to  his  rest, 
Where  there's  dhrink  of  the  best, 
And  so  let  us  give  his  old  sowl 

A  howl, 
For  'twas  he  made  the  noggin  to  rowl. 

WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 


A  CREDO 


For  the  sole  edification 
Of  this  decent  congregation, 
Goodly  people,  by  your  grant 
I  will  sing  a  .holy  chant — 

I  will  sing  a  holy  chant. 
If  the  ditty  sound  but  oddly, 
'Twas  a  father,  wise  and  godly, 

Sang  it  so  long  ago — 
Then  sing  as  Martin  Luther  sang, 
As  Doctor  Martin  Luther  sang: 
"Who  loves  not  wine,  woman  and  song, 
He  is  a  fool  his  whole  life  long!" 


THE  MERRY  MEN  135 

ii 

He,  by  custom  patriarchal, 
Loved  to  see  the  beaker  sparkle; 
And  he  thought  the  wine  improved, 
Tasted  by  the  lips  he  loved — 

By  the  kindly  lips  he  loved. 
Friends,  I  wish  this  custom  pious 
Duly  were  observed  by  us, 

To  combine  love,  song,  wine, 
And  sing  as  Martin  Luther  sang, 
As   Doctor  Martin   Luther  sang: 
"Who  loves  not  wine,  woman,  and  song, 
He  is  a  fool  his  whole  life  long!" 

WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 

(After  the  German.) 


A  TOAST 

Here's  a  health  to  thee,  Roberts, 
And  here's  a  health  to  me; 

And  here's  to  all  the  pretty  girls 
From  Denver  to  the  sea ! 

Here's  to  mine  and  here's  to  thine! 

Now's  the  time  to  clink  it ! 
Here's  a  flagon  of  old  wine, 

And  here  we  are  to  drink  it. 

Wine  that  maketh  glad  the  heart 

Of  the  bully  boy! 
Here's  the  toast  that  we  love  most 

"Love  and  song  and  joy!" 


THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Song  that  is  the  flower  of  love, 

And  joy  that  is  the  fruit ! 
Here's  the  love  of  woman,  lad, 

And  here's  our  love  to  boot! 

You  and  I  are  far  too  wise 

Not  to  fill  our  glasses. 
Here's  to  me  and  here's  to  thee, 

And  here's  to  all  the  lasses !  - 

RICHARD  HOVEY. 


"Indeed,   quoth   Pantagruel,  thou  art  a  gentle 
companion." 


"Sir  Toby.  Shall  we  rouse  the  night-owl  in  a 
catch  that  will  draw  three  souls  out  of  one  wea- 
ver? shall  we  do  that? 

Sir  Andrew.  An  you  love  me,  let's  do  't:  I 
am  a  dog  at  a  catch." — Tivelfth  Night,  Act.  II, 
Sc.  iii. 


THE  TALE  OF  LORD  LOVELL 

Lord  Lovell  he  stood  at  his  own  front  door, 

Seeking  the  hole  for  his  key; 
His  hat  was  wrecked,  and  his  trousers  bore 

A  rent  across  either  knee, 
When  down  came  the  beauteous  Lady  Jane 

In  fair  white  draperie. 


THE  MERRY  MEN  137 

"Oh,  where  have  you  been,  Lord  Lovell?"  she  said, 
"Oh,  where  have  you  been?"  said  she; 

"I  have  not  closed  an  eye  in  bed, 
And  the  clock  has  just  struck  three, 

Who  has  been  standing  you  on  your  head 
In  the  ash-barrel,  pardie?" 

"I  am  not  drunk,  Lad'  Shane,"  he  said: 

"And  so  late  it  cannot  be; 
The  clock  struck  one  as  I  entered — 

I  heard  it  two  times,  or  three; 
It  must  be  the  salmon  on  which  I  fed 

Has  been  too  many  for  me." 

"Go  tell  your  tale,  Lord  Lovell,"  she  said, 

"To  the  maritime  cavalree, 
To  your  grandmother  of  the  hoary  head — 

To  any  one  but  me : 
T-he  door  is  not  used  to  be  opened 

With  a  cigarette  for  a  key." 

ANONYMOUS. 


"Dost  thou  think,  because  thou  art  virtuous, 
there  shall  be  no  more  cakes  and  ale?" — Twelfth 
Night,  Act  II,  Sc.  iii. 


"The  gravest  beast  is  an  ass;  the  gravest  bird 
is  an  owl;  the  gravest  fish  is  an  oyster;  and  the 
gravest  man  a  fool." 

JOE  MILLER. 


138          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

NOT   A   SOU  HAD  HE   GOT,— NOT   A 
GUINEA  OR  NOTE 

Not  a  sou  had  he  got, — not  a  guinea  or  note, 
And  he  looked  confoundedly  flurried, 

As  he  bolted  away  without  paying  his  shot, 
And  the  Landlady  after  him  hurried. 

We  saw  him  again  at  dead  of  night, 
When  home  from  the  Club  returning; 

We  twigged  the  Doctor  beneath  the  light 
Of  the  gas-lamp   brilliantly  burning. 

All  bare,  and  exposed  to  the  midnight  dews, 
Reclined  in  the  gutter  we  found  him; 

And  he  looked  like  a  gentleman  taking  a  snooze, 
With  his  Marshall  cloak  around  him. 

"The  Doctor's  as  drunk  as  the  Devil,"  we  said, 
And  we  managed  a  shutter  to  borrow; 

We  raised  him,  and  sighed  at  the  thought  that 

his  head 
Would  "consumedly  ache"  on  the  morrow. 

We  bore  him  home,  and  we  put  him  to  bed, 

And  we  told  his  wife  and  daughter 
To  give  him,  next  morning,  a  couple  of  red 

Herrings,  with  soda  water. 

Loudly  they  talked  of  his  money  that's  gone, 
And  his  Lady  began  to  upbraid  him; 

But  little  he  recked,  so  they  let  him  snore  on 
'Neath  the  counterpane  just  as  we  laid  him. 


THE  MERRY  MEN  139 

We  tucked  him  in,  and  had  hardly  done 

When,  beneath  the  window  calling:, 
We  heard  the  rough  voice  of  a  son  of  a  gun 

Of  a  watchman  "One  o'clock!"  bawling. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  all  walked  down 
From  his  room  in  the  uppermost  story; 

A  rushlight  we  placed  on  the  cold  hearth-stone, 
And  we  left  him  alone  in  his  glory. 

RICHARD  HARRIS  BARHAM. 


My  brethren,  be  chaste — till  you're  tempted; 

While  sober  be  grave  and  discreet; 
And  humble  your  bodies  with  fasting — 

As  oft  as  you've  nothing  to  eat. 

JOHN  PHILPOT  CURRAN. 

("The  Monks  of  the  Screw.") 


NEXT  MORNING 

If  some  one's  head's  not  very  bright, 
At  least  the  owner  bears  no  malice. 

Who  was  it  pulled  my  nose  last  night, 
And  begged  an  interview  at  Calais? 

The  quarrel  was  not  much,  I  think, 
For  such  a  deadly  arbitration : 

Some  joke  about  the  missing  link — 
And  all  the  rest  inebriation. 


140         THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

In  vino  veritas!  which  means 
A  man's  a  very  ass  in  liquor; 

The  "thief  that  slowly  steals  our  brains" 
Makes  nothing  but  the  temper  quicker. 

Next  morning  brings  a  train  of  woes, 

But  finds  the  passions  much  sedater.  .  .  . 

Who  was  it,  now,  that  pulled  my  nose? — 
I'd  better  ring  and  ask  the  waiter. 

CHOLMONDELEY  PENNELL. 


I  COME  FROM  CASTLEPATRICK 

I  come  from  Castlepatrick  and  my  heart  is  on  my 

sleeve, 
And  any  sword  or  pistol  boy  can  hit  ut  with  me 

leave, 
It  shines  there  for  an  epaulette,  as  golden  as  a 

flame, 

As  naked  as  me  ancestors,  as  noble  as  me  name. 
For  I  come  from  Castlepatrick  and  my  heart  is  on 

my  sleeve, 
But  a  lady  stole  it  from  me  on  St.  Gallowglass's 

Eve. 

The  folks  that  live  in  Liverpool,  their  heart  is  in 

their  boots; 
They  go  to  Hell  like  lambs,  they  do,  because  the 

hooter  hoots. 
Where  men  may  not  be  dancin',  though  the  wheels 

may  dance  all  day; 


THE  MERRY  MEN  141 

And  men  may  not  be  smokin',  but  only  chimneys 

may. 
But  I  come  from  Castlepatrick  and  my  heart  is  on 

my  sleeve, 
But  a  lady  stole  it  from  me  on  St.  Poleyander's 

Eve. 

The  folks  that  live  in  black  Belfast,  their  heart  is 
in  their  mouth; 

They  see  us  making  murders  in  the  meadows  of  the 
South; 

They  think  a  plough's  a  rack,  they  do,  and  cattle- 
calls  are  creeds, 

And  they  think  we're  burnin'  witches  when  we're 
only  burnin'  weeds. 

But  1  come  from  Castlepatrick,  and  me  heart  is  on 
me  sleeve; 

But  a  lady  stole  it  from  me  on  St.  Barnabas's  Eve. 

G.  K.  CHESTERTON. 

(From  "The  Flying  Inn.") 


"By  the  body  of  a   hen,  we  shall  make  good 
cheer,  and  be  as  merry  as  crickets." 


There  was  an  old  fellow  at  Waltham  Cross, 
Who  merrily  sung,  when  he  lived  by  the  loss ! 
He  cheered  up  his  heart,  when  his  goods  went  to 

rack, 
With  a  "Hem,  Boys!   Hem!"  and  a  cup  of  old 

Sack. 

EDWARD  ROOME. 


142          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


A  MILE  AN'  A  BITTOCK 

A  mile  an'  a  bittock,  a  mile  or  twa, 
Abiiue  the  burn,  ayont  the  law, 
Davie  an'  Donal'  an'  Cherlie  an'  a', 
An'  the  miine  was  shinin'  clearly! 

Ane  went  hame  wi'  the  ither,  an'  then 
The  ither  went  hame  wi'  the  ither  twa  men, 
An'  baith  wad  return  him  the  sei'vice  again, 
An'  the  miine  was  shinin'  clearly ! 

The  clocks  were  chappin'  in  house  an'  ha', 
Eleeven,  twal  an'  ane  an'  twa ; 
An'  the  guidman's  face  was  turnt  to  the  wa', 
An'  the  miine  was  shinin'  clearly! 

A  wind  got  up  frae  affa  the  sea, 
It  blew  the  stars  as  dear's  could  be, 
It  blew  in  the  een  of  a'  o'  the  three, 
An'  the  miine  was  shinin'  clearly! 

Noo,  Davie  was  first  to  get  sleep  in  his  head, 
"The  best  o'  frien's  maun  twine,"  he  said; 
"I'm  weariet,  an'  here  I'm  awa'  to  my  bed." 
An'  the  miine  was  shinin'  clearly ! 

Twa  o'  them  walkin'  an'  crackin'  their  lane, 
The  mornin'  licht  cam  grey  an'  plain, 
An'  the  birds  they  yammert  on  stick  an'  stane, 
An'  the  miine  was  shinin'  clearly! 


THE  MERRY  MEN  143 

0  years  ayont,  0  years  awa', 
My  lads,  ye'll  mind  whate'er  befa' — 
My  lads,  ye'll  mind  on  the  bield  o'  the  law, 
When  the  mime  was  shinin'  clearly! 

ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON. 


Who  misses  or  who  wins  the  prize. 

Go,  lose  or  conquer  as  you  can; 
But  if  you  fail,  or  if  you  rise, 

Be  each,  pray  God,  a  gentleman. 

WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 


A  STEIN  SONG 

Give  a  rouse,  then,  in  the  May-time, 

For  a  life  that  knows  no  fear! 
Turn  night-time  into  day-time, 

With  the  sunlight  of  good  cheer! 
For  it's  always  fair  weather 

When  good  fellows  get  together, 
With  a  stein  on  the  table  and  a  good  song  ringing 
clear ; 

For  it's  always  fair  weather 
When  good  fellows  get  together, 

With  a  stein  on  the  table  and  a  good  song  ring- 
ing clear. 

Oh,  we're  all  frank  and  twenty 
When  the  spring  is  in  the  air; 


144,          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

And  we've  faith  and  hope  a-plenty, 

And  we've  life  and  love  to  spare; 
And  it's  birds  of  a  feather 

When  good  fellows  get  together, 
With  a  stein  on  the  table  and  a  heart  without  a 
care; 

And  it's  birds  of  a  feather 
When  good  fellows  get  together, 

With  a  stein  on  the  table  and  a  heart  without  a 
care. 


For  we  know  the  world  is  glorious, 

And  the  goal  a  golden  thing, 
And  that  God  is  not  censorious 

When  His  children  have  their  fling; 
And  life  slips  its  tether 

When  good  fellows  get  together, 
With  a  stein  on  the  table  in  the   fellowship   of 
spring; 

Then  life  slips  its  tether 
When  good  fellows  get  together, 

With  a  stein  on  the  table  in  the  fellowship  of 
spring. 


When  the  wind  comes  up  from  Cuba 

And  the  birds  are  on  the  wing, 
And  our  hearts  are  patting  juba 

To  the  banjo  of  the  spring, 
Then  life  slips  its  tether 

When  good  fellows  get  together, 
With  a  stein  on   the  table  m  the  fellowship  of 
spring; 


THE  MERRY  iMEN  145 

Then  life  slips  its  tether 
When  good  fellows  get  together, 

With  a  stein  on  the  table  in  the  fellowship  of 
spring. 

RICHARD  HOVEY. 


"I  will  drink,  by  God,  both  to  thee  and  to  thy 
horse,  and  so  courage,  frolic,  God  save  the  com- 
pany." 

RABELAIS. 


COMRADES,  POUR  THE  WINE  TO-NIGHT 

Comrades,  pour  the  wine  to-night, 

For  the  parting  is  with  dawn. 
Oh,  the  clink  of  cups  together 
With  the  daylight  coming  on! 
Greet  the  morn 
With  a  double  horn, 
When  strong  men  drink  together! 

Comrades,  gird  your  swords  to-night, 
For  the  battle  is  with  dawn. 

Oh,  the  clash  of  shields  together, 
With  the  triumph  coming  on ! 


146          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Greet  the  foe 
And  lay  him  low, 
When  strong  men  fight  together. 

Comrades,  watch  the  tides  to-night, 

For  the  sailing  is  with  dawn. 
Oh,  to  face  the  spray  together, 
With  the  tempest  coming  on ! 
Greet  the  Sea 
With  a  shout  of  glee, 
When  strong  men  roam  together. 

Comrades,  give  a  cheer  to-night, 

For  the  dying  is  with  dawn. 
Oh,  to  meet  the  stars  together, 
With  the  silence  coming  on ! 
Greet  the  end 
As  a  friend  to  a  friend, 
When  strong  men  die  together. 

RICHARD  HOVEY. 


"On  -the  faith  of  true  lanterners,"  quoth  Friar 
John,  "  'tis  gallant,  sparkling  Greek  wine.  Now 
for  God's  sake,  sweetheart,  do  but  teach  me  how 
the  devil  you  make  it." 


I  dined  with  a  friend  in  the  East  one  day 

Who  had  no  window-sashes; 

A  sunbeam  through  the  window  came 

And  burnt  his  wife  to  ashes. 

"John,  sweep  your  mistress  away,"  says  he, 

"And  bring  fresh  wine  for  my  friend  and  me." 


THE  MERRY  MEN  147 


HANOVER  WINTER-SONG 

Ho,  a  song  by  the  fire! 

(Pass  the  pipes,  fill  the  bowl!) 

Ho,  a  song  by  the  fire ! 

—With  a  skoal!  ... 

For  the  wolf  wind  is  whining  in  the  doorways, 

And  the  snow  drifts  deep  along  the  road, 

And  the  ice-gnomes  are  marching  from  their  Nor- 

ways, 

And  the  great  white  cold  walks  abroad. 
( Boo-oo-o !  pass  the  bowl ! ) 

For  here  by  the  fire 

We  defy  frost  and  storm. 

Ha,  ha!  we  are  warm 

And  we  have  our  hearts'  desire; 

For  here's  four  good  fellows 

And  the  beechwood  and  the  bellows, 

And  the  cup  is  at  the  lip 

In  the  pledge  of  fellowship. 
Skoal! 

RICHARD  HOVEY. 


The  merry  skylarks  soar  and  sing, 
And  seem  to  Heaven  very  near — 

Who  knows  what  blessed  inns  they  see, 
What  holy  drinking  songs  they  hear? 

C.  W.  DALMON. 


148          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


EPIGRAM 

Thou  swear'st  thou'lt  drink  no  more :  kind  heaven, 

send 

Me  such  a  cook,  or  coachman :  but  no  such  friend. 
18th  Century.     Oldys'  Collection. 


They  say,  and  I  am  glad  they  say, 

It  is  so;  and  it  may  be  so, 
It  may  be  just  the  other  way, 

I  cannot  tell,  but  this  I  know — 
From  quiet  homes  and  first  beginnings 

Out  to  the  undiscovered  ends 
There's  nothing  worth  the  wear  of  winning 

Save  laughter  and  the  love  of  friends. 

HILAIBE   BELLOC. 


MICKEY  FREE'S  SONG 

What  an  illegant  life  a  friar  leads, 

With  a  fat  round  paunch  before  him ! 
He  mutters  a  prayer  and  counts  his  beads, 

And  all  the  women  adore  him. 
It's  little  he's  troubled  to  work  or  think, 

Wherever  devotion  leads  him; 
A  "pater"  pays  for  his  dinner  and  drink, 

For  the  Church — good  luck  to  her ! — feeds  him. 


THE  MERRY  MEN  149 

From  the  cow  in  the  field  to  the  pig  in  the  sty, 

From  the  maid  to  the  lady  in  satin, 
They  tremble  wherever  he  turns  an  eye. 

He  can  talk  to  the  Devil  in  Latin ! 
He's  mighty  severe  to  the  ugly  and  ould, 

And  curses  like  mad  when  he's  near  'em; 
But  one  beautiful  trait  of  him  I've  been  tould, 

The  innocent  craytures  don't  fear  him. 

It's  little  for  spirits  or  ghosts  he  cares; 

For  'tis  true  as  the  world  supposes, 
With  an  Ave  he'd  make  them  march  down-stairs, 

Av  they  dared  to  show  their  noses. 
The  Devil  himself's  afraid,  'tis  said, 

And  dares  not  to  deride  him; 
For  "angels  make  each  night  his  bed, 

And  then — lie  down  beside  him." 

CHARLES  LEVER. 

(From  "Charles  O'Malley.") 


GLUGGITY  GLUG 

A  jolly  fat  friar  loved  liquor  good  store, 

And  he  had  drunk  stoutly  at  supper; 
He  mounted  his  horse  one  night  at  the  door, 

And  sat  with  his  face  to  the  crupper ; 
"Some   rogue,"    quoth   the   friar,   "quite   dead   to 
remorse, 

Some  thief  whom  a  halter  will  throttle — 
Some  scoundrel  has  cut  off  the  head  of  my  horse, 

While  I  was  engaged  with  my  bottle; 
Which  goes — Glugglty,  gluggity,  glug." 


150          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

The  steed  bad  his  tail  pointed  south  on  the  dale, 

'Twas  the  friar's  road  home  straight  and  level; 
But  when  spurred  a  horse  follows  his  nose — not  his 
tail, 

So  he  scampered  due  north  like  the  Devil ! 
''This  new  mode  of  docking,"  the  fat  friar  said, 

"I  perceive  does  not  make  a  horse  trot  ill; 
And  'tis  cheap,  for  he  never  can  eat  off  his  head — 

While  I  am  engaged  with  my  bottle; 
Which  goes — Gluggity,  gluggity,  glug." 

The  steed  made  a  stop,  to  pond  he  had  got — 
He  was  rather  for  drinking  than  grazing; 
Quoth   the   friar,   "  'Tis   strange,  headless   horses 

should  trot, 

But  to  drink  with  their  tails  is  amazing !" 
Turning  round  to  find  whence  this  phenomenon 

rose, 

In  the  pond  fell  this  son  of  a  pottle. 
Quoth  he,  "The  head's  found,  for  I'm  under  the 

nose — 
I  wish  I  was  over  the  bottle; 

Which  goes — Gluggity,  gluggity,  glug." 

GEORGE  COLMAN  THE  YOUNGER. 


I  drink  it  as  the  Fates  ordain  it.  1 

Come,  fill  it,  and  have  done  with  rhymes : 

Fill  up  the  lonely  glass,  and  drain  it 
In  memory  of  the  dear  old  times. 

W.  M.  THACKERAY. 

("The  Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse.") 


THE  MERRY  MEN  151 


Barney  McGee,  there's  no  end  of  good  luck  in  you, 

Will-o'-the-wisp,  with  a  flicker  of  Puck  in  you, 

Wild  as  a  bull-pup  and  all  of  his  pluck  in  you, — 

Let  a  man  tread  on  your  coat  and  he'll  see ! — 

Eyes  like  the  lakes  of  Killarney  for  clarity, 

Nose  that  turns  up  without  any  vulgarity, 

Smile  like  a  cherub,  and  hair  that  is  carroty, — 

Wow,  you're  a  rarity,  Barney  McGee ! 

Mellow  as  Tarragon, 

Prouder  than  Aragon — 

Hardly  a  paragon, 

You  will  agree — 

Here's  all  that's  fine  to  you ! 

Books  and  old  wine  to  you ! 

Girls  be  divine  to  you, 

Barney  McGee! 

Lucky  the  day  when  I  met  you  unwittingly, 

Dining  where  vagabonds  came  and  went  flittingly. 

Here's  some  Barb  era  to  drink  it  befittingly, 

That  day  at  Silvio's,  Barney  McGee! 

Many's  the  time  we  have  quaffed  our  Chianti  there, 

Listened  to  Silvio  quoting  us  Dante  there, — 

Once  more  to  drink  Nebiolo  spumante  there, 

How  we'd  pitch  Pommery  into  the  sea ! 

There  where  the  gang  of  us 

Met  ere  Rome  rang  of  us, 

They  had  the  hang  of  us  to  a  degree. 

How  they  would  trust  to  you! 

That  was  but  just  to  you. 


152          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Here's  o'er  their  dust  to  you, 
Barney  McGee! 

Barney  McGee,  when  you're  sober  you  scintillate, 
But  when  you're  in  drink  you're  the  pride  of  the 

intellect ; 

Divil  a  one  of  us  ever  caine  in  till  late, 
Once  at  the  bar  where  you  happened  to  be — 
Every  eye  there  like  a  spoke  in  your  centering, 
You  with  your  eloquence,  blarney  and  bantering — 
All  Vagabondia  shouts  at  your  entering, 
King  of  the  Tenderloin,  Barney  McGee ! 
There's  no  satiety 
In  your  society 
With  the  variety 
Of  your  esprit. 
Here's  a  long  purse  to  you, 
And  a  great  thirst  to  you ! 
Fate  be  no  worse  to  you, 
Barney  McGee! 

Och,  and  the  girls  whose  poor  hearts  you  deraci- 
nate, 

Whirl  and  bewilder  and  flutter  and  fascinate! 

Faith,  it's  so  killing  you  are,  you  assassinate, — 

Murder's  the  word  for  you,  Barney  McGee ! 

Bold  when  they're  sunny  and  smooth  when  they're 
showery, — 

Oh,  but  the  style  of  you,  fluent  and  flowery! 

Chesterfield's  way,  with  a  touch  of  the  Bowery! 

How  would  they  silence  you,  Barney  maclireef 

Naught  can  your  gab  allay, 

Learned  as  Rabelais 


THE  MERRY  MEN  153 

(You  in  his  abbey  lay 
Once  on  the  spree). 
Here's  to  the  smile  of  you, 
(Oh,  but  the  guile  of  you!) 
And  a  long  while  of  you, 
Barney  McGee! 

Facile  with  phrases  of  length  and  Latinity, 
Like  honoriftcabilitudin ity, 
Where  is  the  maid  could  resist  your  vicinity, 
Wiled  by  the  impudent  grace  of  your  plea? 
Then  your  vivacity  and  pertinacity 
Carry  the  day  with  the  divil's  audacity; 
No  mere  veracity  robs  your  sagacity 
Of  perspicacity,  Barney  McGee. 
When  all  is  new  to  them, 
What  will  you  do  to  them? 
Will  you  be  true  to  them? 
Who  shall  decree? 
Here's  a  fair  strife  to  you! 
Health  and  long  life  to  you! 
And  a  great  wife  to  you, 
'Barney  McGee! 

Barney  McGee,  you're  the  pick  of  gentility; 
Nothing  can  phase  you,  you've  such  a  facility; 
Nobody  ever  yet  found  your  utility, — 
That  is  the  charm  of  you,  Barney  McGee ; 
Under  conditions  that  others  would  stammer  in, 
Still  unperturbed  as  a  cat  or  a  Cameron, 
Polished  as  somebody  in  the  Decameron, 
Putting  the  glamour  on  prince  or  Pawnee ! 
In  your  meanderin', 


154          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Love,  and  philanderin', 
Calm  as  a  mandarin 
Sipping  his  tea ! 
Under  the  art  of  you, 
Parcel  and  part  of  you, 
Here's  to  the  heart  of  you, 
Barney  McGee! 

You  who  were  ever  alert  to  befriend  a  man, 

You  who  were  ever  the  first  to  defend  a  man, 

You  who  had  always  the  money  to  lend  a  man, 

Down  on  his  luck  and  hard  up  for  a  V ! 

Sure,  you'll  be  playing  a  harp  in  beatitude 

(And  a  square  sight  you  will  be  in  that  attitude )- 

Some  day,  where  gratitude  seems  but  a  platitude, 

You'll  find  your  latitude,  Barney  McGee. 

That's  no  flim-flam  at  all, 

Frivol  or  sham  at  all, 

Just  the  plain —    Damn  it  all, 

Have  one  with  me ! 

Here's  luck  and  more  to  you ! 

Friends  by  the  score  to  you, 

True  to  the  core  to  you, 

Barney  McGee! 

RICHARD  HOVEY. 


THE  MERRY  MEN  155 


THE  GHOSTS 

In  life  three  ghostly  friars  were  we, 
And  now  three  f  riarly  ghosts  we  be. 

Around  our  shadowy  table  placed, 
The  spectral  bowl  before  us  floats : 

With  wine  that  none  but  ghosts  can  taste, 
We  wash  our  unsubstantial  throats, 
Three   merry   ghosts — three   merry    ghosts — three 

merry  ghosts  are  we : 

Let  the  ocean  be  Port,  and  we'll  think  it  good  sport 
To  be  laid  in  that  Red  Sea ! 

With  songs  that  jovial  spectres  chaunt, 
Our  old  refectory  still  we  haunt. 

The  traveller  hears  our  midnight  mirth : 
"0  list !"  he  cries,  "the  haunted  choir ! 

The  merriest  ghost  that  walks  the  earth, 
Is  sure  the  ghost  of  a  ghostly  friar." 
Three    merry    ghosts — three   merry    ghosts — three 

merry  ghosts  are  we : 

Let  the  ocean  be  Port,  and  we'll  think  it  good  sport 
To  be  laid  in  that  Red  Sea ! 

THOMAS  LOVE  PEACOCK. 


Then   hang  up   good   faces,   we'll   drink  till   our 

noses 

Give  freedom  to  speak  what  our  fancy  disposes, 
Beneath  whose  protection  is  under  the  roses. 

ALEXANDER  BROME. 


156          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


THE  WINDS  WHISTLE  COLD 

The  winds  whistle  cold, 

And  the  stars  glimmer  red; 
The  flocks  are  in  fold 

And  the  cattle  in  shed. 
When  the  hoar  frost  was  chill 
Upon  moorland  and  hill 

And  was  fringing  the  forest  bough, 
Our  father  would  troll 
The  bonny  brown  bowl, 
And  so  will  we  do  now, 

Jolly  hearts ! 
And  so  will  we  do  now ! 

Gaffer  Winter  may  seize 
Upon  milk  in  the  pail; 
'Twill  be  long  ere  he  freeze 
The  bold  brandy  and  ale; 
For  our  fathers  so  bold, 
They  laughed  at  the  cold, 

When  Boreas  was  bending  his  brow; 
For  they  quaffed  mighty  ale 
And  they  told  a  blithe  tale, 
And  so  will  we  do  now, 

Jolly  hearts! 
And  so  will  we  do  now! 

DANIEL  TERRY. 


THE  MERRY  MEN  157 


MICKEY  FREE'S  SONG 

Oh,  once  we  were  illigint  people, 

Though  we  now  live  in  cabins  of  mud; 
And  the  land  that  ye  see  from  the  steeple 

Belonged  to  us  all  from  the  Flood. 
My  father  was  then  King  of  Connaught, 

My  grand-aunt  Viceroy  of  Tralee; 
But  the  Sassenach  came,  and  signs  on  it, 

The  devil  an  acre  have  we. 

The  least  of  us  then  were  all  earls, 

And  jewels  we  wore  without  name; 
We  drank  punch  out  of  rubies  and  pearls, — 

Mr.  Petrie  can  tell  you  the  same. 
But  except  some  turf  mould  and  potatoes, 

There's  nothing  our  own  we  can  call; 
And  the  English, — bad  luck  to  them! — hate  us, 

Because  we've  more  fun  than  them  all! 

My  grand-aunt  was  niece  to  Saint  Kevin, 

That's  the  reason  my  name's  Mickey  Free ! 
Priest's  nieces, — but  sure  he's  in  heaven, 

And  his  failin's  is  nothin'  to  me. 
And  we  still  might  get  on  without  doctors, 

If  they'd  let  the  ould  Island  alone; 
And  if  purple-men,  priests,  and  tithe-proctors 

Were  crammed  down  the  great  gun  of  Athlone. 
CHARLES  LEVER. 

(From  "Charles  (XMalley.") 


158          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


COMMANDERS  OF  THE  FAITHFUL 

The  Pope  be  is  a  happy  man, 

His  palace  is  the  Vatican, 

And  there  he  sits  and  drains  his  can : 

The  Pope  he  is  a  happy  man. 

I  often  say  when  I'm  at  home, 

I'd  like  to  be  the  Pope  of  Rome. 

And  then  there's  Sultan  Saladin, 
That  Turkish  Soldan  full  of  sin ; 
He  has  a  hundred  wives  at  least, 
By  which  his  pleasure  is  increased: 
I've  often  wished,  I  hope  no  sin, 
That  I  were  Sultan  Saladin. 

But  no,  the  Pope  no  wife  may  choose, 
And  so  I  would  not  wear  his  shoes; 
No  wine  may  drink  the  proud  Paynim, 
And  so  I'd  rather  not  be  him : 
My  wife,  my  wine,  I  love,  I  hope, 
And  would  be  neither  Turk  nor  Pope. 
WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 


We'll  drink  to-night  with  hearts  as  light 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's  brim, 

And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting^ 

CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN. 


THE  MERRY  MEN  159 


Time  there  was  when  earthly  joy 
Gave  our  senses  full  employ ; 
In  those  days  forever  gone, 
Bless  us,  how  we  carried  on! 

Clinking  glasses — 

Lovely  lasses — 

Revel  hearty — 

Picnic  party — 

Gay  donzella — 

Tarantella ! 

In  those  days  forever  gone, 
Bless  us,  how  we  carried  on ! 

W.  S.  GILBERT. 

(From  "The  Mountebanks.") 


"Though  I  cannot  remember  what  I  did  when 
you  made  me  drunk,  yet  I  am  not  altogether  an 
ass." — Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  Act  I,  Sc.  i. 


WELL,  WHY  NOT?      . 

Rhymer  Byron  was  a  rake  — 
Shakespeare  often  hit  the  bottle; 

Burns  was  always  on  the  slake,       „ 
Pouring-  liquor  down  his  throttle; 


160         THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Poe  was  pickled  night  and  day ; 

"Oh,  you  kid!"  was  Villon's  war  cry; 
Take  the  list  across  the  way, 

And  the  same  was  not  a  far  cry; 
Goldsmith  never  had  a  cent, 

Shelley  jumped  his  board  and  lodging; 
Homer  never  paid  his  rent, 

Up  and  down  the  highway  dodging; 
Same  old  bunch  across  the  slope, 

Little  coin — but  game  to  blow  it. — 
Seems  to  me,  from  all  this  dope, 

I  too  ought  to  be  a  poet. 

L.  T. 


A  glass  is  goad,  and  a  lass  is  good, 
And  a  pipe  to  smoke  in  cold  weather, 

The  world  is  good,  and  the  people  are  good, 
And  we're  all  good  fellows  together. 

A  bottle  is  a  very  good  thing 

With  a  good  deal  of  good  wine  in  it, 

A  song  is  good,  when  a  body  can  sing, 
And  to  finish  we  must  begin  it. 

A  table  is  good,  when  spread  with  good  cheer, 
And  good  company  sitting  round  it ; 

When  a  good  way  off,  we're  not  very  near, 
And,  for  sorrow — the  devil  confound  it ! 
JOHN  O'KEEFE. 

("Sprigs  of  Laurel.") 
(Incomplete.) 


THE  MERRY  MEN  161 


THE  FRIARS'  CHORUS 

This  bottle's  the  sun  of  our  table, 

His  beams  are  rosy  wine: 
We,  planets  that  are  not  able 

Without  his  help  to  shine. 
Let  mirth  and  glee  abound ! 

You'll  soon  grow  bright 

With  borrowed  light, 
And  shine  as  he  goes  round. 

RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 


A  BUMPER  OF  GOOD  LIQUOR 

A  bumper  of  good  liquor 
Will  end  a  contest  quicker 
Than  justice,  judge,  or  vicar; 
So  fill  a  cheerful  glass 
And  let  good  humour  pass. 

But  if  more  deep  the  quarrel, 
Why  sooner  drain  the  barrel 
Than  be  the  hateful  fellow 
That's  crabbed  when  he's  mellow. 

So  fill  a  cheerful  glass 

And  let  good  humour  pass. 

RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 


162          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE 

With  a  bottle  and  friend — 

Friend  is  Tom  and  bottle  sherry — 

I  shall  now  begin  and  end 

This  brief  space  where  two  years  blend, 
Wondrous  wise  and  merry. 

Never  yet  was  such  a  woe 

That  had  not  a  pleasure  pressing 
Close  upon  its  heels;  and  so 
Through  the  Old  and  New  we  go, 
Each  at  some  time  blessing. 

Though  the  Old  Year  brought  to  me 
Little  joy  and  much  of  sorrow, 

In  the  New  I  hope  to  be 

Happier;  my  joys,  you  see, 
Always  come — to-morrow. 

So,  as  New  Year's  Eve  doth  end, 

Tom,  and  I,  and  golden  sherry — 
Finest  wine  and  oldest  friend — 
Kill  the  space  where  two  years  blend 
Making  wondrous  merry. 

GEORGE  ARNOLD. 


And  He  that  will  not  pledge  his  Health 
I  wish  him  neither  wit,  nor  wealth, 
Nor  yet  a  rope  to  hang  himself! 
With  a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la! 


THE  MERRY  MEN  163 


A  miens : 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 

Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 

And  turn  his  merry  note 

Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat — 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither! 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun 

And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun, 

Seeking  the  food  he  eats, 

And  pleased  with  what  he  gets — 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither! 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Jaques  : 

If  it  do  come  to  pass 

That  any  man  turn  ass, 

Leaving  his  wealth  and  ease 

A  stubborn  will  to  please, 
Ducdame,  ducdame,  ducdame: 

Here  shall  he  see 

Gross  fools  as  he, 
And  if  he  will  come  to  me. 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

("As  You  Like  It.") 


164          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


HAD  I  THE  TUN  WHICH  BACCHUS  USED 

Had  I  the  tun  which  Bacchus  used, 

I'd  sit  on  it  all  day; 
For,  while  a  can  it  ne'er  refused, 

He  nothing  had  to  pay.    • 

I'd  turn  the  cock  from  morn  to  eve, 

Nor  think  it  toil  or  trouble; 
But  I'd  contrive,  you  may  believe, 

To  make  it  carry  double. 

My  friend  should  sit  as  well  as  I, 

And  take  a  jovial  pot; 
For  he  who  drinks — although  he's  dry — 

Alone,  is  sure  a  sot. 

But  since  the  tun  which  Bacchus  used 
We  have  not  here — what  then? 

Since  godlike  toping  is  refused, 
Let's  drink  like  honest  men. 

And  let  that  churl,  old  Bacchus,  sit, — 

Who  envies  him  his  wine? 
While  mortal  fellowship  and  wit 

Makes  whiskey  more  divine. 

RICHARD  ALFRED  MILLIKIN. 


Now,  then,  the  songs;  but,  first,  more  wine. 
The  Gods  be  with  you,  friends  of  mine! 

EUGENE  FIELD. 


THE  MERRY  MEN  165 

FROM  THE  RUBAIYAT  OF  OMAR 
KHAYYAM 

VII 

Come,  fill  the  Cup,  and  in  the  fire  of  Spring 
Your  Winter-garment  of  Repentance  fling: 

The  Bird  of  Time  has  but  a  little  way 
To  flutter — and  the  Bird  is  on  the  Wing. 

LVII 

Ah,  but  my  Computations,  People  say, 
Reduced  the  Year  to  better  reckoning1? — Nay, 

'Twas  only  striking  from  the  Calendar 
Unborn  Tomorrow  and  dead  Yesterday. 

XCIII 

Indeed  the  Idols  I  have  loved  so  long 

Have  done  my  credit  in  this  World  much  wrong : 

Have  drown'd  my  Glory  in  a  shallow  Cup, 
And  sold  my  Reputation  for  a  Song. 

xciv 

Indeed,  indeed,  Repentance  oft  before 
I  swore — but  was  I  sober  when  I  swore? 

And  then  came  Spring,  and  Rose-in-hand 
My  thread-bare  Penitence  apieces  tore. 

Translation  of  EDWARD  FITZGERALD. 


166          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


EPIGRAM 

Says  my  Lord  to  his  Cook,  "You  son  of  a  punk, 
How  comes  it  I  see  you  thus  every  day  drunk? 
Physicians,  they  say,  once  a  month  do  allow 
A  man  for  his  health  to  get  drunk  as  a  sow." 
"That  is  right,"  quoth  the  cook,  "but  the  day  they 

don't  say, 

So  for  fear  I  should  miss  it,  I'm  drunk  every  day." 
"New  Foundling  Hospital  for  Wit."     1786. 


Oh,  here's  to  other  meetings, 
And  merry  greetings  then, 

And  here's  to  those  we've  drunk  with, 
But  never  can  again. 

MAJOR. 


BALLAD  OF  GOOD  DOCTRINE  TO  THOSE 
OF  ILL  LIFE 

Peddle  indulgences,  as  you  may : 

Cog  the  dice  for  your  cheating  throws: 

Try  if  counterfeit  coin  will  pay, 

At  risk  of  roasting  at  last,  like  those 
That  deal  in  treason.     Lie  and  glose, 

Rob  and  ravish:  what  profits  it? 

Who  gets  the  purchase,  do  you  suppose? 

Taverns  and  wenches,  every  whit. 


THE  MERRY  MEN  167 

Rhyme,  rail,  wrestle  and  cymbals  play: 

Flute  and  fool  it  in  mummers'  shows: 
Along  with  the  strolling  players  stray 

From  town  to  city,  without  repose; 

Act  mysteries,  farces,  imbroglios; 
Win  money  at  gleek  or  at  lucky  hit 

At  the  pins:  like  water,  away  it  flows; 
Taverns  and  wenches,  every  whit. 

Turn  from  your  evil  courses  I  pray, 

That  smell  so  foul  in  a  decent  nose : 
Earn  your  bread  in  some  honest  way. 

If  you  have  no  letters,  nor  verse  nor  prose, 

Plough  or  groom  horses,  beat  hemp  or  toze. 
Enough  shall  you  have  if  you  think  but  fit : 

But  cast  not  your  wage  to  each  wind  that  blows; 
Taverns  and  wenches,  every  whit.  * 

Envoy 

Doublets,  pourpoints  and  silken  hose, 

Gowns  and  linen,  woven  or  knit, 
Ere  your  wede's  worn,  away  it  goes ; 

Taverns  and  wenches,  every  whit. 

.  FRANQOIS  VILLON. 

(Payne's  Translation.) 


168          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


A  PARTIE  CARREE 

Boys,  'tis  little  I  care  to  dine 

Where  the  host  is  vain  and  the  guests  are  fine, 

Where  the  wines  are  warm  and  the  dishes  cold, 

And  the  mutton  is  young,  and  the  spinsters  old. 

Better  a  humble  meal,  I  say; 

Give  me  an  honest  Partie  Carree. 

Draw  the  curtains,  and  shut  the  door! 
Here  we  are,  jolly  good  fellows  four; 
The  turbot  is  firm,  and  the  joint  is  brown, 
Cut  from  a  six-year-old  South-down : 
Tender  the  grouse,  and  not  forgot 
A  tart  of  the  delicate  apricot. 

Now  for  a  glass  of  the  foaming  wine, 

One  should  drink  (a  little)  whene'er  we  dine; 

And  prytb.ee,  admire  this  amber  star; 

Sir,  this  is  "London  particular" ! 

After  the  cloth's  away,  I  trow, 

There's  nought  like  a  bottle  of  black  Bordeaux! 

So  let  a  simple  life  be  mine, 

Always  with  three  brave  boys  to  dine. 

At  supper  indeed  we  would  rather  sip 

Nectar  drawn  from  a  ruby  lip ; 

But  at  dinner,  spread  at  the  close  of  day, 

Give  me  a  hearty  Partie  Carree. 

"BARRY  CORNWALL." 
(BRYAN  WALLER  PROCTER.) 


THE  MERRY  MEN  169 


A  DRINKING  SONG 

Drink  and  fill  the  night  with  ruirth  ! 

Let  us  have  a  mighty  measure, 
Till  we  quite  forget  the  earth, 

And  soar  into  the  world  of  pleasure. 
Drink  and  let  a  health  go  round, 

("Tis  the  drinker's  noble  duty), 
To  the  eyes  that  shine  and  wound, 

To  the  mouths  that  bud  in  beauty. 

Fill  the  deep-mouthed  glasses  high! 

Let  them  with  the  champagne  tremble, 
Like  the  loose  wrack  in  the  sky, 

When  the  four  wild  winds  assemble! 
Here's  to  all  the  love  on  earth, 

(Love,  the  young  man's,  wise  man's  treas- 
ure!) 
Drink,  and  fill  your  throats  with  mirth ! 

Drink,  and  drown  the  world  in  pleasure. 
"BARRY  CORNWALL." 

( Incomplete. ) 


Drink  clear,  boys, 
And  you  shall  quickly  know  it, 
That  'tis  not  lousy  Beer,  boys, 
But  Wine,  that  makes  a  Poet. 

From  an  Old  Catch. 
"Antidote  against  Melancholy."     1661. 


170          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


THE  LAST  LAMP  OF  THE  ALLEY 

The  last  lamp  of  the  alley 

Is  burning  alone! 
All  its  brilliant  companions 

Are  shivered  and  gone. 
No  lamp  of  her  kindred, 

No  burner  is  nigh, 
To  rival  her  glimmer, 

Or  light  to  supply. 

I'll  not  leave  thee,  thou  lone  one, 

To  vanish  in  smoke! 
As  the  bright  ones  are  shattered, 

Thou  too  shalt  be  broke. 
Thus  kindly  I  scatter 

Thy  globe  o'er  the  street, 
Where  the  watch  in  his  rambles 

Thy  fragments  shall  meet. 

Then  home  will  I  stagger 

As  well  as  I  may; 
By  the  light  of  my  nose  sure 

I'll  find  out  the  way. 
When  thy  blaze  is  extinguished, 

Thy  brilliancy  gone, 
Oh !  my  beak  shall  illumine 

The  alley  alone. 

WILLIAM  MAGINN. 


THE  MERRY  MEN  171 


ON  A  CLUB  OF  SOTS 

The  jolly  members  of  a  toping  club, 

Like  pipestaves,  are  but  hoop'd  into  a  tub; 

And  in  a  close  confederacy  link, 

For  nothing  else  but  only  to  hold  drink. 

SAMUEL  BUTLER. 


Noah  built  a  mighty  ship, 

Happy  he  o'er  mountains  sail'd, 
Till  he  drank  out  all  his  flip. 

Then  his  noble  courage  fail'd; 
Bade  the  dove  go  fetch  a  sign 

That  water  then  no  more  did  spout : 
Took  ihe  olive  for  a  vine, 

Or  he'd  ne'er  have  ventured  out. 

JOHN  O'KEEFE. 

(From  "The  Czar  Peter.") 


THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS 

See !  the  smoking  bowl  before  us, 

Mark  our  jovial  ragged  ring ! 
Round  and  round  take  up  the  chorus, 
And  in  raptures  let  us  sing: 

A  fig  for  those  by  law  protected ! 

Liberty's  a  glorious  feast ! 
Courts  for  cowards  were  erected, 
Churches  built  to  please  the  priest. 


172          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

What  is  title?  what  is  treasure? 

What  is  reputation's  care? 
If  we  lead  a  life  of  pleasure, 

"Tis  no  matter  when  or  where. 

Life  is  all  a  variorum, 

We  regard  not  how  it  goes; 
Let  them  cant  about  decorum 

Who  have  characters  to  lose. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


Would  you  be  a  man  of  fashion? 
Would  you  live  a  life  divine  ? 
Take  a  little  dram  of  passion 
In  a  lusty  dose  of  wine. 

Long  live  to-day — our  own  at  least, 
Shall  we  to-morrow  see? 
Take  what  you  can  of  joy  and  feast, 
And  let  to-morrow  be. 

DURANT. 


I  wish  that  my  room  had  a  floor; 
I  don't  so  much  care  for  a  door, 
But  this  walking  around 
Without  touching  the  ground 
Is  getting  to  be  such  a  bore. 

GELETT  BURGESS. 


THE  MERRY  MEN  173 


Then  fill  the  cup,  fill  high !     Fill  high ! 

Let  joy  our  goblets  crown. 
We'll  bung  Misfortune's  scowling  eye, 

And  knock  Foreboding  down. 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 


AULD  LANG  SYNE 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  never  brought  to  mind? 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  auld  lang  syne! 

Chorus. — For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne, 
We'll  tak  a  cup  6'  kindness  yet, 
For  auld  lang  syne. 

And  surely  ye'll  be  your  pint  stowp ! 

And  surely  I'll  be  mine! 
And  we'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld,  etc. 

We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes, 
And  pou'd  the  go  wans  fine ; 

But  we've  wander'd  mony  a  weary  fit, 
Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld,  etc. 


174          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

We  twa  hae  paidl'd  in  the  burn, 

Frae  morning  sun  till  dine; 
But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roar'd 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld,  etc. 

And  there's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fere! 

And  gie's  a  hand  o'  thine ! 
And  we'll  tak'  a  right  gude  willie-waught, 
For  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld,  etc. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


FAREWELL  TO  TOM  MOORE 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore, 
And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea ; 

But,  before  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 
Here's  a  double  health  to  thee. 


Here's  a  sigh  to  those  who  love  me, 
And  a  smile  to  those  who  hate; 

And,  whatever  sky's  above  me, 
Here's  a  heart  for  every  fate. 

Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me, 
Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on; 

Though  a  desert  should  surround  me, 
It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 


THE  MERRY  MEN  175 

Were't  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 

As  I  gasped  upon  the  brink, 
Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell, 

"Tis  to  thee  that  I  would  drink. 

In  that  water,  as  this  wine, 

The  libation  I  would  pour 
Should  be — Peace  with  thine  and  mine, 

And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore ! 

LORD  BYRON. 


Sinful  youth,  sinful  youth, 
You  must  die,  you  must  die! 
I  can  hardly  tell  the  truth, 
I'm  so  dry,  I'm  so  dry. 


Gae  fill  the  three  pint  cup  o'  ale 
The  maul  maun  be  above  the  meal, 
We  houp  your  ale  is  stark  and  stout 
For  men  to  drink  the  auld  year  out. 


There's  death  in  the  cup — sae  beware! 

Nay,  more — there  is  danger  in  touching; 
But  wha  can  avoid  the  fell  snare1? 

The  man  and  his  wine's  sae  bewitching. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


176          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Give  me  no  home  'neath  the  pale  pink  dome  of 

European  skies, 
No  cot  for  me  by  the  salmon  sea  that  far  to  the 

southward  lies; 
But  away  out  west  I  would  build  my  nest  on  top 

of  a  carmine  hill, 

Where  I   could  paint,  without  restraint,  creation 
redder  still. 

EUGENE  FIELD. 


Come,  once  more,  a  bumper! — then  drink  as  you 

please, 
Tho'   who    could    fill   half-way   to   toasts   such   as 

these  ? 
Here's  our  next  joyous  meeting — and,  oh,  when  we 

meet, 

May  our  wine  be  as  brig-lit  and  our  union  as  sweet! 

THOMAS  MOORE. 

( Incomplete. ) 


A  fellah  went  home  in  a  hansom, 

He  had  been  out  all  evening  to  dansom ; 

And  he  sighed,  "Well,  that's  queer, 

There  is  no  key-hole  here !" 
So  he  threw  his  hat  over  the  transom. 


THE  MERRY  MEN  177 


I  LIKE  THE  NEW  FRIENDS  BEST 

Old  friends  are  'most  too  home-like  now. 

They  know  your  age,  and  when 

You  got  expelled  from  school,  and  lots 

Of  other  things,  an'  then 

They  'member  when  you  shivereed 

The  town  an'  broke  the  lights 

Out  of  the  school  'nen  run  away 

An'  played  "Hunt  Cole"  out  nights. 

They  'member  when  you  played  around 

Your  dear  old  mommy's  knee; 

It's  them  can  tell  the  very  date 

That  you  got  on  a  spree. 

I  don't  like  to  forget  'em,  yet 

If  put  right  to  the  test 

Of  hankerin'  right  now  for  'em, 

I  like  the  new  friends  best. 

BEN  KING. 


THE  TEMPESTUOUS  PETTICOAT 


//  ever  I  marry  a  wife, 

I'll  marry  a  landlord's  daughter, 
And  sit  in  the  bar  all  day, 

And  drink  cold  brandy  and  water. 

CHARLES  LAMB. 


SONG  OF  DRAGOONS 

We've  been  thrown  over,  we're  aware, 
But  we  don't  care — but  we  don't  care! 
There's  fish  in  the  sea,  no  doubt  of  it, 
As  good  as  ever  came  out  of  it, 
And  some  day  we  shall  get  our  share, 
So  we  don't  care, — so  we  don't  care! 

W.  S.  GILBERT. 

("Patience.") 


"TO  THE  WOMAN  THAT'S  GOOD" 
(The  Elks'  Toast.) 

Ho,  gentlemen !     Lift  your  glasses  up, 

Each  gallant,  each  swain  and  lover! 
A  kiss  to  the  beads  that  brim  in  the  cup — 

A  laugh  for  the  foam  spilt  over! 
For  the  soul  is  aflame  and  the  heart  beats  high, 

And  care  has  unloosened  its  tether, 
"Now   drink,"   said   the   sage,   "for  tomorrow  we 
die"— 

So,  let's  have  a  toast  together! 
Swing  the  goblet  aloft,  to  the  lips  let  it  fall, 

Then  bend  you  the  knee  to  address  her, 
And  drink,  gentle  sirs,  to  the  queen  of  them  all — 

To  the  woman  that's  good — God  bless  her! 
181 


182          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

A  youth  is  a  madcap,  and  time  is  a  churl, 

Pleasure  calls  and  remorse  follows  after; 
The  world  hustles  on  in  its  pitiless  whirl, 

With  its  kisses,  its  tears  and  its  laughter. 
But  there's  one  gentle  heart  in  its  bosom  of  white — 

The  maid  with  the  tender  eyes  gleaming — 
Who  has  all  the  wealth  of  my  homage  tonight^ 

Where  she  lies  in  her  innocent  dreaming. 
And  a  watch  over  her  my  spirit  shall  keep, 

While  the  angels  lean  down  to  caress  her, 
And  I'll  pledge  her  again  in  her  beautiful  sleep — 

The  woman  that's  good — God  bless  her! 

Ah,  Bohemia's  honey  is  sweet  to  the  sip, 

And  the  song  and  the  dance  are  alluring! 
The  mischievous  maid  with  the  mutinous  lip 

Has  a  charm  that  is  very  enduring! 
But  out  from  the  smoke  wreaths  and  music  and 
lace 

Of  that  world  of  the  tawdrily  clever, 
There  floats  the  rare  spell  of  the  pure  little  face 

That  has  chased  away  folly  forever. 
And  I  drain  my  last  toast  ere  I  go  to  my  rest — 

Oh,  fortunate  earth  to  possess  her — 
To  the  dear,  tender  heart  in  the  pure,  white  breast 

Of  the  woman  that's  good — God  bless  her ! 

ANONYMOUS. 


"  Cleopatra's  nose :  had  it  been  shorter,  the  face 
of  the  world  had  been  changed." 

PASCAL. 


THE   TEMPESTUOUS   PETTICOAT       183 

SORROWS  OF  WERTHER 

Werther  had  a  love  for  Charlotte 
Such  as  words  could  never  utter; 

Would  you  know  how  first  he  met  her? 
She  was  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

Charlotte  was  a  married  lady, 
And  a  moral  man  was  Werther, 

And,  for  all  the  wealth  of  Indies,    • 
Would  do  nothing  for  to  hurt  her. 

So  he  sighed  and  pined  and  ogled, 
And  his  passion  boiled  and  bubbled, 

Till  he  blew  his  silly  brains  out. 
And  no  more  was  by  it  troubled. 

Charlotte,  having  seen  his  body 

Borne  before  her  on  a  shutter, 
Like  a  well-conducted  person, 

Went  on  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 


0  love,  love,  love, 

Love  is  like  a  dizziness; 
It  winna  let  a  puir  body 

Gang  about  his  business. 

JAMES  HOGG. 


184          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Here's  to  ye  absent  Lords,  may  they 
Long  in  a  foreign  Countree  stay ; 
Drinking  at  other  ladies'  boards 
The  health  of  other  absent  Lords. 

OLD  SONG. 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LOVER'S  FRIEND 
AIB — "The  days  we  went  a-gypsying." 

I  would  all  womankind  were  dead, 

Or  banished  o'er  the  sea ; 
For  they  have  been  a  bitter  plague 

These  last  six  weeks  to  me : 
It  is  not  that  I'm  touched  myself, 

For  that  I  do  not  fear; 
No  female  face  hath  shown  me  grace 
For  many  a  bygone  year. 

But  'tis  the  most  infernal  bore, 

Of  all  the  bores  I  know, 
To  have  a  friend  who's  lost  his  heart 
A  short  time  ago. 

Whene'er  we  steam  it  to  Blackwall, 

Or  down  to  Greenwich  run, 
To  quaff  the  pleasant  cider  cup, 

And  feed  on  fish  and  fun ; 
Or  climb  the  slopes  of  Richmond  Hill, 

To  catch  a  breath  of  air: 
Then,  for  my  sins,  he  straight  begins 

To  rave  about  his  fair. 


THE   TEMPESTUOUS   PETTICOAT       185 

Oh,  'tis  the  most  tremendous  bore, 
Of  all  the  bores  I  know, 

To  have  a  friend*  who's  lost  his  heart 
A  short  time  ago. 

In  vain  you  pour  into  his  ear 

Your  own  confiding  grief; 
In  vain  you  claim  his  sympathy, 

In  vain  you  ask  relief; 
In  vain  you  try  to  rouse  him  by 

Joke,  repartee,  or  quiz; 
His  sole  reply's  a  burning  sigh, 
And  "What  a  mind  it  is !" 

0  Lord !  it  is  the  greatest  bore, 

Of  all  the  bores  I  know, 
To  have  a  friend  who's  lost  his  heart 
A  short  time  ago. 

I've  heard  her  thoroughly  described 

A  hundred  times,  I'm  sure; 
And  all  the  while  I've  tried  to  smile, 

And  patiently  endure; 
He  waxes  strong  upon  his  pangs, 

And  potters  o'er  his  grog; 
And  still  I  say,  in  a  playful  way — 
"Why,  you're  a  lucky  dog!" 

But  oh !  it  is  the  heaviest  bore, 

Of  all  the  bores  I  know, 
To  have  a  friend  who's  lost  his  heart 
A  short  time  ago. 

I  really  wish  he'd  do  like  me 
When  I  was  young  and  strong; 


186          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

I  formed  a  passion  every  week, 

But  never  kept  it  long. 
But  he  has  not  the  sportive  mood 

That  always  rescued  me, 
And  so  I  would  all  women  could 
Be  banished  o'er  the  sea. 

For  'tis  the  most  egregious  bore, 

Of  all  the  bores  I  know, 
To  have  a  friend  who's  lost  his  heart 
A  short  time  ago. 

WILLIAM  E.  AYTOUN. 


"Lord !     I  wonder  what  fool  it  was  that  first  in- 
vented kissing." 

SWIFT. 


THE  TIME  I'VE  LOST  IN  WOOING 

The  time  I've  lost  in  wooing, 
In  watching  and  pursuing 

The  light  that  lies 

In  woman's  eyes, 
Has  been  my  heart's  undoing. 
Tho'  Wisdom  oft  has  sought  me, 
I  scorn'd  the  lore  she  brought  me, 

My  only  books 

Were  woman's  looks, 
And  folly's  all  they  taught  me. 


THE   TEMPESTUOUS  PETTICOAT       187 

Her  smile  when  Beauty  granted, 
I  hung  with  gaze  enchanted, 

Like  him  the  Sprite 

Whom  maids  by  night 
Oft  meet  in  glen  that's  haunted. 
Like  him,  too,  Beauty  won  me; 

If  once  their  ray 

Was  turn'd  away, 
0 !  winds  could  not  outrun  me. 

And  are  those  follies  going? 
And  is  my  proud  heart  growing 

Too  cold  or  wise 

For  brilliant  eyes 
Again  to  set  it  glowing? 
No — vain,  alas!  th'  endeavour 
From  bonds  so  sweet  to  sever; — 

Poor  Wisdom's  chance 

Against  a  glance 
Is  now  as  weak  as  ever. 

THOMAS  MOORE. 


"Men  have  died  from  time  to  time  and  worms 
have  eaten  them,  but  not  for  love." 

"As  You  Like  it,"  Act  IV,  Sc.  i. 


"Is't  come  to  this?.  .  .  .  Shall  I  never  see  a 
bachelor  of  threescore  again?" 

"Much  Ado  About  Nothing,"  Act  I,  Sc.  i. 


188          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


RESIGNATION 

I  could  resign  that  eye  of  blue, 

Howe'er  its  splendour  used  to  thrill  me; 
And  e'en  that  cheek  of  roseate  hue — 

To  lose  it,  Chloe,  scarce  would  kill  me. 

That  snowy  "neck  I  ne'er  should  miss, 
However  much  I  raved  about  it; 

And  sweetly  as  that  lip  can  kiss, 
I  think  I  could  exist  without  it. 

In  short,  so  well  I've  learned  to  fast, 

That,  sooth,  my  love,  I  know  not  whether 

I  might  not  bring  myself  at  last 
To  do  without  you  altogether. 

THOMAS  MOORE. 


You  say  at  your  feet  I  wept  in  despair, 
And  vowed  that  no  angel  was  ever  so  fair: 
How  could  you  believe  all  the  nonsense  I  spoke  ? 
What  know  we  of  angels? — I  meant  it  in  joke. 

I  next  stand  indicted  for  swearing  to  love 
(And   nothing  but   death   should   my   passion    re- 
move) : 

I  have  liked  you  a  twelvemonth,  a  calendar  year : 
And    not    yet    contented ! — Have    conscience,    my 
dear! 

"The  Siren." 


THE   TEMPESTUOUS  PETTICOAT       189 

COMPANIONS 
A  Tale  of  a  Grandfather. 

I  know  not  of  what  we  pondered 

Or  made  pretty  pretence  to  talk, 
As,  her  hand  within  mine,  we  wandered 

Tow'rd  the  pool  by  the  lime-tree  walk, 
While  the  dew  fell  in  showers  from  the  passion 
flowers 

And  the  blush-rose  bent  on  her  stalk. 

I  cannot  recall  her  figure : 

Was  it  regal  as  Juno's  own? 
Or  only  a  trifle  bigger 

Than  the  elves  who  surround  the  throne 
Of  the  Faery  Queen,  and  are  seen,  I  ween, 

By  mortals  in  dreams  alone? 

What  her  eyes  were  like  I  know  not: 
Perhaps  they  were  blurred  with  tears; 

And  perhaps  in  yon  skies  there  glow  not 
(On  the  contrary)  clearer  spheres. 

No !  as  to  her  eyes  I  am  just  as  wise 
As  you  or  the  cat,  my  dears. 

Her  teeth,  I  presume,  were  "pearly" : 
But  which  was  she,  brunette  or  blonde? 

Her  hair,  was  it  quaintly  curly, 
Or  as  straight  as  a  beadle's  wand? 

That  I  failed  to  remark; — it  was  rather  dark 
And  shadowy  round  the  pond. 


190         THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Then  the  hand  that  reposed  so  snugly 

In  mine — was  it  plump  or  spare? 
Was  the  countenance  fair  or  ugly? 

Nay,  children,  you  have  me  there! 
My   eyes  were  p'haps   blurred;    and   besides  I'd 
heard 

That  it's  horribly  rude  to  stare. 

And  I — was  I 'brusque  and  surly? 

Or  oppressively  bland  and  fond? 
Was  I  partial  to  rising  early? 

Or  why  did  we  twain  abscond, 
When  nobody  knew,  from  the  public  view 

To  prowl  by  a  misty  pond? 

What  passed,  what  was  felt  or  spoken — 

Whether  anything  passed  at  all — 
And  whether  the  heart  was  broken 

That  beat  under  that  shelt'ring  shawl — 
(If  shawl  she  had  on,  which  I  doubt) — has  gone 

Yes,  gone  from  me  past  recall. 

Was  I  haply  the  lady's  suitor? 

Or  her  uncle?     I  can't  make  out — 
Ask  your  governess,  dears,  or  tutor. 

For  myself,  I'm  in  hopeless  doubt 
As  to  why.  we  were  there,  who  on  earth  we  were, 

And  what  this  is  all  about. 

C.  S.  CALVERLEY. 


THE   TEMPESTUOUS   PETTICOAT      191 


They  may  talk  of  love  in  a  cottage, 

And   bowers  of  trellised  vine, 
Of  nature  bewitcbingly  simple, 

And  milkmaids  balf  divine; 
Tbey  may  talk  of  tbe  pleasure  of  sleeping 

In  the  shade  of  a  spreading  tree, 
And  a  walk  in  the  fields  at  morning, 

By  the  side  of  a  footstep  free! 

True  love  is  at  home  on  a  carpet, 

And  mightily  likes  his  ease; 
And  true  love  has  an  eye  for  a  dinner, 

And  starves  beneath  shady  trees. 
His  wing  is  the  fan  of  a  lady, 

His  foot's  an  invisible  thing, 
And  his  arrow  is  tipped  with  a  jewel, 

And  shot  from  a  silver  string. 

•  N.  P.  WILLIS. 

(Incomplete.) 


And  here's  to  a'  in  barley  bree, 

Oursel's  and  a'  the  warld  thegither, 

To  a'  wha  luve  the  kilted  knee, 
Or  bonnie  lasses  in  the  heather. 

GEO.  ROBERTSON,  JR. 


192          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


HACKER'S  SONG 

Woman's   like   the   flatt'ring  ocean, 

Who  her  pathless  ways  can  find? 
Every  blast  directs  her  motion; 

Now  she's  angry,  now  she's  kind. 
What  a  fool's  the  venturous  lover, 

WhiiTd  and  toss'd  by  every  wind! 
Can  the  bark  the  port  recover 

When  the  silly  pilot's  blind? 

JOHN  GAY. 

(From  "Polly.") 


A  GENERAL  TOAST 

Here's  to  the   Maiden   of  blushing  fifteen ! 

Here's  to  the  Widow  of  fifty ! 
Here's  to  the  flaunting  extravagant  Quean, 

And  then  to  the  Housewife  that's  thrifty! 

Chorus — 

Let  the  Toast  pass !  drink  to  the  Lass ! 

I  warrant  she'll  prove  an  excuse  for  the  Glass! 

Here's  to  the  Charmer,  whose  dimples  we  prize! 

Now  to  the  Damsel  with  none,  sir! 
Here's  to  the  Maid  with  her  pair  of  blue  eyes; 

And  now  to  the  Nymph  with  but  one,  sir! 
Chorus.     Let  the  toast  pass  .  .  . 


THE   TEMPESTUOUS   PETTICOAT       193 

Here's  to  the  Maid  with  the  bosom  of  snow! 

Now  to  her  that's  brown  as  a  berry! 
Here's  to  the  Wife  with  a  face  full  of  woe; 

And  now  to  the  Damsel  that's  merry ! 
Chorus.  Let  the  Toast  pass  .  .  . 

For  let  them  be  clumsy,  or  let  them  be  slim, 
Young  or  ancient;  I  care  not  a  feather  I 

So  fill  us  a  bumper,  quite  up  to  the  brim; 
And  e'en  let  us  Toast  them  together! 

Chorus — 

Let  the  Toast  pass !  drink  to  the  Lass ! 
I  warrant  she'll  prove  an  excuse  for  the  Glass! 
RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 


Precious    fingers,    precious   toes, 
Precious  eyes  and  precious  nose, 
Precious  chin  and  precious  lip, 
Precious  fool  that  lets  'em  slip. 

ANONYMOUS. 


LOVE  AND  TOBACCO 

The  Artist  feeling  for  his  type, 

The  rose  may  miss,  the  thorn  may  rue; 

My  dream  is  rounded  with  my  pipe, 
My  pipe  and  You. 


194          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Renown's  a  shy  and  shifty  snipe 
That  other  guns  to  death  may  do; 

I  trudge  along  towards  my  pipe, 
My  pipe  and  You. 

For  all  the  Fruits  of  Time  were  ripe, 
And  all  the  skies  of  Chance  were  blue, 

If  only  I  possessed  my  pipe, 
My  pipe  and  You. 

WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY.    1877. 


GREEN  GROW  THE  RASHES,  O! 

There's  nought  but  care  on  ev.'ry  han'; 

In  ev'ry  hour  that  passes,  0 ; 
What  signifies   the   life   o'   man, 

And  'twere  na  for  the  lasses,  0 ! 


Chorus — 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  0; 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  0; 
The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I  spend, 
Are  spent  amang  the  lasses,  0. 

The  war'ly  race  may  riches  chase, 
An'  riches  still  may  fly  them,  0 ; 

An'  tho'  at  last  they  catch  them  fast, 
Their  hearts  can  ne'er  enjoy  them,  0. 


THE  TEMPESTUOUS  PETTICOAT       195 

But  gie  me  a  cannie  hour  at  e'en, 

My  arms  about  my  dearie,  0; 
An'  war'ly  cares  an'  war'ly  men 

May  a'  gae  tapsalteerie,  0! 

For  you  sae  douce,  ye  sneer  at  this; 

Ye're  nought  but  senseless  asses,  0 : 
The  wisest  man  that  warl'  e'er  saw, 

He  dearly  lov'd  the  lasses,  0. 

Auld  Nature  swears,  the  lovely  dears 
Her  noblest  work  she  classes,  0: 

Her  prentice  han'  she  try'd  on  man, 
And  then  she  made  the  lasses,  0. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


OLD  LOVES 

Louise,  have  you  forgotten  yet 

The  corner  of  the  flowery  land, 
The  ancient  garden  where  we  met, 

My  hand  that  trembled  in  your  hand? 
Our  lips  found  words  scarce  sweet  enough, 

As  low  beneath  the  willow-trees 
We  sat;  have  you  forgotten,  love? 

Do  you  remember,  love  Louise? 

Marie,  have  you  forgotten  yet 
The  loving  barter  that  we  made? 

The  rings  we  changed,  the  suns  that  set, 
The  woods  fulfilled  with  sun  and  shade? 


196          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

The  fountains  that  were  musical 
By  many  an  ancient  trysting  tree — 

Marie,  have  you  forgotten  all? 
Do  you  remember,  love  Marie? 

Christine,  do  you  remember  yet 

Your  room  with  scents  and  roses  gay? 
My  garret — near  the  sky  'twas  set — 

The  April  hours,  the  nights  of  May? 
The  clear,  calm  nights — the  stars  above 

That  whispered  they  were  fairest  seen 
Through  no  cloud-veil  ?     Remember,  love ! 

Do  you  remember,  love  Christine? 

Louise  is  dead,  and,  well-a-day! 

Marie  a  sadder  path  has  ta'en ; 
And  pale  Christine  has  passed  away 

In  southern  suns  to  bloom  again. 
Alas!  for  one  and  all  of  us — 

Marie,  Louise,  Christine  forget; 
Our  bower  of  love  is  ruinous, 

And  I  alone  remember  yet. 

HENRI  MURGER. 
(Translation  by  ANDREW  LANG.) 


Some  take  their  gold  in  minted  mould, 
And  some  in  harps  hereafter, 
But  give  me  mine  in  tresses  fine, 
And  keep  the  change — in  laughter. 

OLIVER  HERFORD. 


THE   TEMPESTUOUS   PETTICOAT       197 


The  Jack  of  Spades  and  the  Queen  o'  Clubs 

Walked  one  night  on  the  promenade  deck, 

While  the  King:  played  poker 

Down  below  in  the  smoker, 

Putting  up  blues  to  win  a  white  check; 

For  his  luck  was  poor  and  the  King  dismayed, — 

But  little  knew  he  that  the  Jack  sashayed 

Arm  in  arm  to  and  fro  with  the  Queen  up  above, 

A-squeezin'  of  her  hand  and  tellin'  of  his  love! 

Says  the  Jack  to  the  Queen,  "You're  my  all  in  all ; 

We  must  ever  stick  together  tho'  the  heavens  fall." 

"There's  but  one  thing  to  part  us," 

She  lamented  with  a  blush, 

''We  couldn't  stick  together 

In  a  Royal  Flush." 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  DEAD  LADIES 
After  Francois  Villon. 

Tell  me  now  in  what  hidden  way  is 

Lady  Flora  the  lovely  Roman? 
Where's  Hipparchia,  and  where  is  Thais, 

Neither  of  them   the   fairer  woman? 

Where  is  Echo,  beheld  of  no  man, 
Only  heard  on  river  and  mere, — 

She  whose  beauty  was  more  than  human? 
But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year? 

Where's  Heloise,  the  learned  nun, 
For  whose  sake  Abeillard,  I  ween, 


198          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Lost  manhood  and  put  priesthood  on? 

(From  Love  he  won  such  dule  and  teen!) 
And  where,  I  pray  you,  is  the  Queen 

Who  willed  that  Buridan  should  steer 

Sewed  in  a  sack's  mouth  down  the  Seine?  .  . 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year? 

White  Queen  Blanche,  like  a  queen  of  lilies, 
With  a  voice  like  any  mermaiden, — 

Bertha  Broadfoot,  Beatrice,  Alice, 
And  Ermengarde  the  lady  of  Maine, — 
And  that  good  Jean  whom  Englishmen 

At  Rouen  doomed  and  burned  her  there, — 
Mother  of  God,  where  are  they  then?  .  .  . 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year? 

Envoy 

Nay,  never  ask  this  week,  fair  lord, 

Where  they  are  gone,  nor  yet  this  year, 

Except  with  this  for  an  overword, — 

"But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year?" 
DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI. 


Gaze  on  her  bosom  of  sweets,  and  take 
This  truth  for  a  constant  rule: — 

Enchanting  woman  can  always  make 
The  wisest  of  men  a  fool. 

GEORGE  COLMAN  THE  YOUNGER. 

("The  Law  of  Java.") 


THE   TEMPESTUOUS   PETTICOAT       199 


THE  MANLY  HEART 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair, 

Die  because  a  woman's  fair? 

Or  make  pale  my  cheeks  with  care 

'Cause  another's  rosy  are? 

Be  she  fairer  than  the  day 

Or  the  flowery  meads  in  May — 
If  she  think  not  well  of  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be?  ... 

Shall  a  woman's  virtues  move 
Me  to  perish  for  her  love? 
Or  her  well-deservings  known 
Make  me  quite  forget  mine  own? 
Be  she  with  that  goodness  blest 
Which  may  merit  name  of  Best ; 
If  she  be  not  such  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  good  she  be?  ... 

Great  or  good,  or  kind  or  fair, 

I  will  ne'er  the  more  despair; 

If  she  love  me,  this  believe, 

I  will  die  ere  she  shall  grieve; 

If  she  slight  me  when  I  woo, 

I  can  scorn  and  let  her  go; 
For  if  she  be  not  for  me, 
What  care  I  for  whom  she  be?  ... 

GEORGE  WITHER. 

( Incomplete. ) 


200          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

A  GENTLE  ECHO  ON  WOMAN 
In  the  Doric  Manner. 

Shepherd.     Echo,  I  ween,  will  in  the  woods  reply, 
And  quaintly  answer  questions :  shall 

I  try? 

Echo.  Try. 

Shepherd.     What  must  we  do  our  passion  to  ex- 
press ? 
Echo.  Press. 


Shepherd.     What    most    moves   women    when    we 

them  address? 

Echo.  A  dress. 

Shepherd.     Say,  what  can  keep  her  chaste  whom 

I  adore? 

Echo.  A  door. 

Shepherd.     If  music  softens  rocks,  love  tunes  my 

lyre. 

Echo.  Liar. 

Shepherd.     Then  teach  me,  Echo,  how  shall  I  come 

by  her? 

Echo.  Buy  her. 

Shepherd.     But  what  can  glad  me  when  she's  laid 

on  bier? 

Echo.  Beer. 

Shepherd.     What  must  I  do  when  women  will  be 

kind? 

Echo.  •  Be  kind. 

Shepherd.    What  must  T  do  when  women  will  be 

cross  ? 


THE   TEMPESTUOUS   PETTICOAT      201 

Echo.  Be  cross. 

Shepherd.     Lord,   what    is  she   that   can   so  turn 

and  wind? 

Echo.  Wind. 
Shepherd.     If  she  be  wind,  what  stills  her  when 

she  blows? 

Echo.  Blows. 

Shepherd.     Is  there  no  way  to  moderate  her  anger? 
Echo.  Hang  her. 

Shepherd.     Thanks,    gentle   Echo!    right   thy   an- 
swers tell 
What  woman  is  and  how  to  guard  her 

well. 

Echo.  Guard  her  well. 

DEAN  SWIFT. 

( Incomplete. ) 


"When  I  said  I  would  die  a  bachelor,  I  did  not 
think  I  should  live  till  I  were  married." — Much 
Ado  About  Nothing.  Act.  Ill,  Sc.  i. 


THE  PRIME  OF  LIFE 

Just  as  I  thought  I  was  growing  old, 

Ready  to  sit  in  my  easy  chair, 
To  watch  the  world  with  a  heart  grown  cold, 

And  smile  at  a  folly  I  would  not  share, 


202          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Rose  came  by  with  a  smile  for  me, 
And  I  am  thinking  that  forty  year 

Isn't  the  age  that  it  seems  to  be, 
When  two  pretty  brown  eyes  are  near. 

Bless  me!     Of  life  it  is  just  the  prime, 
A  fact  that  I  hope  she  will  understand; 

And  forty  year  is  a  perfect  rhyme 

To  dark  brown  eyes  and  a  pretty  hand. 

These  grey  hairs  are  by  chance,  you  see — 
Boys  are  sometimes  grey  I  am  told : 

Rose  came  by  with  a  smile  for  me, 
Just  as  I  thought  I  was  getting  old. 

WALTER  LEARNED. 


"JENNY  KISSED  ME" 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met, 

Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in; 
Time,  you  thief,  who  love  to  get 

Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in: 
Say  I'm  weary,  say  I'm  sad, 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  missed  me, 
Say  I'm  growing  old,  but  add, 

Jenny  kissed  me! 

LEIGH  HUNT. 


THE   TEMPESTUOUS  PETTICOAT       203 

UPON  LOVE  BY  WAY  OF  QUESTION 
AND  ANSWER 

I  bring  ye  Love:     Quest.    What  will  love  do? 

Ans.     Like,  and  dislike  ye: 
I  bring  ye  Love:     Quest.    What  will  love  do? 

Ans.     Stroke  ye,  to  strike  ye. 
I  bring  ye  Love:     Quest.    What  will  love  do? 

Ans.     Love  will  befool  ye: 
I  bring  ye  Love:     Quest.    What  will  love  do? 

Ans.    Heat  ye,  to  cool  ye: 
I  bring  ye  Love:     Quest.    What  will  love  do? 

Ans.     Love  gifts  will  send  ye: 
I  bring  ye  Love:     Quest.     What  will  love  do? 

Ans.     Stock  ye  to  spend  ye : 
I  bring  ye  Love:     Quest.    What  will  love  do? 

Ans.     Love  will  fulfil  ye: 
I  bring  ye  Love:     Quest.    What  will  love  do? 

Ans.    Kiss  ye,  to  kill  ye. 

ROBERT  HERRICK 


Said  a  maid,  "I  will  marry  for  lucre," 
And  her  scandalized  ma  almost  shucre; 

But  when  the  chance  came, 

And  she  told  the  good  dame, 
I  notice  she  did  not  rebuchre. 

St.  Louis  Post-Dispatch. 


204          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

THE  APPARITION 

My  dead  Love  came  to  me  and  said : 
"God  gives  me  one  hour's  rest 

To  spend  upon  the  earth  with  thee : 
How  shall  we  spend  it  best?" 

"Why,  as  of  old,"  I  said,  and  so 

We  quarrell'd  as  of  old. 
But  when  I  turn'd  to  make  my  peace 

That  one  short  hour  was  told. 

STEPHEN  PHILLIPS. 


DEFENDANT'S  SONG 

OVOJ        JM&. 

Oh,  gentlemen,  listen,  I  pray, 

Though  I  own  that  my  heart  has  been  ranging, 
Of  nature  the  laws  I  obey, 

For  nature  is  constantly  changing. 
The  moon  in  her  phases  is  found, 

The  time  and  the  wind  and  the  weather, 
The  months  in  succession  come  round, 

And  you  don't  find  two  Mondays  together. 
Consider  the  moral,  I  pray, 

Nor  bring  a  young  fellow  to  sorrow, 
Who  loves  this  young  lady  today. 

And  loves  that  young  lady  tomorrow. 

W.  S.  GILBERT. 

("Trial  by  Jury.") 


THE  TEMPESTUOUS  PETTICOAT      205 


TO  PHCEBE 

"Gentle,  modest  little  flower, 

Sweet  epitome  of  May, 
Love  me  but  for  half  an  hour, 

Love  me,  love  me,  little  fay." 
Sentences  so  fiercely  flaming 

In  your  tiny  shell-like  ear, 
I  should  always  be  exclaiming 

If  I  loved  you,  Phoebe  dear. 

"Smiles  that  thrill  from. any  distance 

Shed  upon  me  while  I  sing! 
Please  ecstaticize  existence, 

Love  me,  oh,  thou  fairy  thing!" 
Words  like  these,  out-pouring  sadly, 

You'd  perpetually  hear, 
If  I  loved  you  fondly,  madly, — 

But  I  do  not,  Phoebe  dear. 

W.  S.  GILBERT. 


He  said  when  first  he  saw  me 

Life  seemed  at  once  divine, 
Each  night  he  dreamed  of  angels, 

And  every  face  was  mine: 
Sometimes  a  voice  in  sleeping 

Would  all  his  hopes  forbid, 
And  then  he'd  waken  weeping — 

Do  you  really  think  he  did? 

CHARLES  SWAIN. 


206          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


THE  WONDER 

My  heart  still  hovering  round  about  you, 
I  thought  I  could  not  live  without  you; 
Now  we've  lived  three  months  asunder, 
How  I  lived  with  you  is  the  wonder. 

18th  Century  Epigram. 


DEFENDANT'S  SONG 

When  first  my  old,  old  love  I  knew 

My  bosom  swelled  with  joy; 
My  riches  at  her  feet  I  threw — 

I  was  a  lovesick  boy ! 
No  terms  seemed  extravagant 

Upon  her  to  employ — 
I  used  to  mope,  and  sigh,  and  pant, 

Just  like  a  lovesick  boy! 

But  joy  incessant  palls  the  sense: 

And  love,  unchanged,  will  cloy, 
And  she  became  a  bore  intense 

Unto  her  lovesick  boy ! 
With  fitful  glimmer  burnt  my  flame 

And  I  grew  cold  and  coy, 
At  last,  one  morning,  I  became 

Another's  lovesick  boy. 

W.  S.  GILBERT. 

("Trial  by  Jury.") 


THE   TEMPESTUOUS   PETTICOAT       207 

Let's  be  gay  while  we  may 
And  seize  love  with  laughter; 

I'll  be  true  as  long  as  you 
And  not  a  moment  after. 


A  OUTRANGE 
(France,    Seventeenth   Century) 

Heigho!     Why  the  plague  did  you  wake  me? 

It's  barely  a  half  after  four; 
My  head,  too,  is — ah!  I  remember 

That  little  affair  at  the  shore. 
Well,  I  had  forgotten  completely ! 

I  must  have  been  drinking  last  night — 
Rapiers,  West  Sands,  and  sunrise; — 

But  whom,  by  the  way,  do  I  fight? 

De  Genlis!     Ah,  now  I  recall  it! 

He  started  it  all,  did  he  not? 
I  drank  to  his  wife — but,  the  devil ! 

He  needn't  have  gotten  so  hot. 
Just  see  what  a  ruffler  that  man  is, 

Just  to  give  me  a  challenge  to  fight, 
And  only  for  pledging  milady 

A  half-dozen  times  in  a  night. 

Ah,  well!     It's  a  beautiful  morning, — 
The  sun  just  beginning  to  rise, — 

A  glorious  day  for  one's  spirit 
To  pilgrimage  off  to  the  skies — 


208          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

God  keep  mine  from  any  such  notion ; — 
This  duel's  a  outnmce,  you  see, — 

I  haven't  confessed  for  a  month  back, 
And  haven't  had  breakfast,  tant  pis! 


Well,  here  we  are,  first  at  the  West  Sands! 

The  tide  is  well  out :  and  how  red 
The  sunrise  is  painting  the  ocean ; — 

Is  that  a  sea-gull  overhead? 
And  here  come  De  Genlis  and  Virron : 

Messieurs,  we  were  waiting  for  you 
To  complete,  with  the  sea  and  the  sunrise, 

The  charming  effect  of  the  view. 


Are  we  ready?     Indeed  we  were  waiting 

Your  orders,  Marigny  and  I. 
On  guard  then  it  is, — we  must  hasten : 

The  sun  is  already  quite  high. 
Where  now  would  you  like  me  to  pink  you? 

I've  no  choice  at  all,  don't  you  see; 
And  any  spot  you  may  desire 

Will  be  convenable  for  me. 


From  this  hand-shake,  I  judge  I  was  drinking 

Last  night,  with  the  thirst  of  a  fish; 
I've  vigour  enough  though  to  kill  you, 

Mon  ami,  and  that's  all  I  wish. 
Keep  cool,  keep  your  temper,  I  beg  you, — '• 

Don't  fret  yourself — Now  by  your  leave 
I'll  finish  you  off — Help,  Marigny! 

His  sword's  in  my  heart,  I  believe. 


THE   TEMPESTUOUS  PETTICOAT      209 

God!     God!     What  a  mortification! 

The  Amontillado  last  night — 
Was  drinking,  you  know,  and  my  hand  shook; — 

My  head,  too,  was  dizzy  and  light. 
And  I  the  best  swordsman  in  Paris ! 

No  priest,  please,  for  such  as  I  am — 
I'm  going' — Good-by,  my  Marigny; 

De  Genlis,  my  love  to  Madame. 

ROBERT  CAMERON  ROGERS. 


"Before  I  was  in  love,  I  had  a  noble  stomach." 
SWIFT. 


EPITAPH 

Beneath  this  stone,  a  lump  of  clay, 

Lies  Arabella  Young, 
Who  on  the  twenty-fourth  of  May 

Began  to  hold  her  tongue. 


WOMAN'S  WILL 

Men  dying  make  their  wills — but  wives 

Escape  a  work  so  sad ; 
Why  should  they  make  what  all  their  lives 

The  gentle  dames  have  had? 

JOHN  G.  SAKE. 


210          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


PALINODIA 

.  .  .  Belles  may  read  and  beaux  may  write,- 

I  care  not  who  or  how ; 
I  burnt  my  Album,  Sunday  night; — 

I'm  not  a  lover  now! 

I  don't  encourage  idle  dreams 

Of  poison  or  of  ropes; 
I  cannot  dine  on  airy  schemes; 

I  cannot  sup  on  hopes : 
New  milk  I  own  is  very  fine, 

Just  foaming  from  the  cow; 
But  yet  I  want  my  pint  of  wine; — 

I'm  not  a  lover  now ! 

When  Laura  sings  your  hearts  away, 

I'm  deafer  than  the  deep ; 
When  Leonora  goes  to  play, 

I  sometimes  go  to  sleep ; 
When  Mary  draws  her  white  gloves  out, 

I  never  dance,  I  vow, — 
"Too  hot  to  kick  one's  heels  about !" 

I'm  not  a  lover  now ! 


And  this  is  life!  no  verdure  blooms 

Upon  the  withered  bough : 
I  save  a  fortune  in  perfumes; — 

I'm  not  a  lover  now! 

W.  M.  PRAED. 

(Incomplete.) 


THE   TEMPESTUOUS   PETTICOAT       211 


A  BALLAD  OF  BEDLAM 

0,  Lady  wake! — the  azure  moon 

Is  rippling  in  the  verdant  skies, 
The  owl  is  warbling  his  soft  tune, 

Awaiting  but  thy  snowy  eyes. 
The  joys  of  future  years  are  past, 

To-morrow's  hopes  have  fled  away; 
Still  let  us  love,  and  e'en  at  last, 

We  shall  be  happy  yesterday. 

The  early  beam  of  rosy  night 

Drives  off  the  ebon  morn  afar, 
While  through  the  murmur  of  the  light 

The  huntsman  winds  his  mad  guitar. 
Then,  lady,  wake!  my  brigantine 

Pants,  neighs,  and  prances  to  be  free; 
Till  the.  creation  I  am  thine, 

To  some  rich  desert  fly  with  me. 

Punch. 

THE  TOPER 

She  tells  me  with  claret  she  cannot  agree, 

And  she  thinks  of  a  hogshead  whene'er  she  sees  me; 

For  I  smell  like  a  beast,  and  therefore  must  I 

Resolve  to  forsake  her  or  claret  deny: 

Must  I  leave  my  dear  bottle  that  was  always  my 

friend, 
And  I  hope  will  continue  so  to  my  life's  end? 


212          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Must  I  leave  it  for  her?  'tis  a  very  hard  task, — 
Let  her  go  to  the  Devil,  bring  the  other  whole  flask ! 

Had  she  tax'd  me  with  gaming  and  bade  me  for- 
bear, 

'Tis  a  thousand  to  one  I  had  lent  her  an  ear; 

Had  she  found  out  my  Chloris  up  three  pair  of 
stairs, 

I  had  baulk'd  her  and  gone  to  St.  James's  to 
pray'rs ; 

Had  she  bid  me  read  homilies  three  times  a  day, 

She  perhaps  had  been  humour'd  with  little  to  say; 

But  at  night  to  deny  me  my  flask  of  dear  red, — 

Let  her  go  to  the  Devil,  there's  no  more  to  be  said ! 

TOM  D'URFEY. 


EPIGRAM        r>  ?d. 

"Dear   Cupid,"    I   cried,   "do   consult   with   your 

mother 

To  subdue  my  dear  Chloe's  insensible  heart." 
Kind  Cupid  obeyed:  Venus  too  play'd  her  part, 
And  my  Chloe  at  length  fell  in  love  with  another. 
"An  Asylum,  for  Fugitive  Pieces."     1785. 


If  all  your  beauties  one  by  one, 
I  pledge,  dear,  I  am  thinking 
Before  the  tale  were  well  begun 
I  had  been  dead  of  drinking:. 


THE  TEMPESTUOUS  PETTICOAT      213 


TO  A  RICH  YOUNG  WIDOW 

I  will  not  ask  if  thou  canst  touch 
The  tuneful  ivory  key?  . 

Those  silent  notes  of  thine  are  such 
As  quite  suffice  for  me. 

I'll  make  no  question  if  thy  skill 

The  pencil  comprehends, 
Enough  for  me,  love,  if  thou  still 

Canst  draw  thy  dividends! 

PUNCH. 


ON  A  REJECTED  NOSEGAY 

Offered  by  the  Author  to  a  beautiful  young  Lady, 
who  returned  it. 

What!  then  you  won't  accept  it,  won't  you?     Oh! 

No  matter;  pshaw!  my  heart  is  breaking,  though. 

My  bouquet  is  rejected;  let  it  be: 

For  what  am  I  to  you,  or  you  to  me? 

'Tis  true  I  once  had  hoped;  but  now,  alas! 

Well,  well;  'tis  over  now,  and  let  it  pass. 

I  was  a  fool — perchance  I  am  so  still; 

You  won't  accept  it!     Let  me  dream  you  will: 

But  that  were  idle.     Shall  we  meet  again? 

Why  should  we?     Water  for  my  burning  brain? 


214          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

I  could  have  loved  thee — Could!     I  love  thee  yet. 
Can  only  Lethe  teach  me  to  forget? 
Oblivion's  balm,  oh  tell  me  where  to  find! 
Is  it  a  tenant  of  the  anguish'd  mind? 
Or  is  it? — ha!  at  last  I  see  it  come; 
Waiter!  a  bottle  of  your  oldest  rum. 

Punch. 


When  late  I  attempted  your  pity  to  move, 
*What  made  you  so  deaf  to  my  prayers? 

Perhaps  it  was  right  to  dissemble  your  love, 
But — why  did  you  kick  me  down  stairs? 

"Isaac  Bickerstaff." 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL 

A  bachelor  sat  in  his  chair — and  he  thought — 
And  he  made  up  his  mind  that  he  wouldn't  be 
caught : 

And  yet  he  wanted  to  do  what  he  ought, 

And  he  thought,  and  he  thought,  and  he  thought. 

A  little  maid  sat  in  her  chair — and  she  thought — 
And  she  made  up  her  mind  that  she  wouldn't  be 

caught : 

And  yet  she  wanted  to  do  what  she  ought, 
And   she    thought,    and    she   thought,    and    she 
thought. 


THE   TEMPESTUOUS   PETTICOAT       215 

A  bachelor  sat  in  his  chair — and  he  thought — 
And  a  little  maid  sat  by  him — just  as  she  ought — 

For,  alas!  they  forgot  about  not  being  caught, 
But  they  thought,  and  they  thought,  and  they 
thought. 


A  Book  of  Verses  underneath  the  Bough, 
A  Jug  of  Wine,  a  Loaf  of  Bread, — and  Thou 

Beside  me  singing  in  the  Wilderness — 
Oh,  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enow ! 

OMAR  KHAYYAM. 


FILL  A  GLASS  WITH  GOLDEN  WINE 

Fill  a  glass  with  golden  wine, 

And  the  while  your  lips  are  wet, 
Set  their  perfume  unto  mine, 

And  forget 

Every  kiss  we  take  and  give 
Leaves  us  less  of  life  to  live. 

Yet  again!     Your  whim  and  mine 

In  a  happy  while  have  met. 
All  your  sweets  to  me  resign, 

Nor  regret 

That  we  press  with  every  breath, 
Sighed  or  singing,  nearer  death. 

WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY. 


216          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


THE  RABBINICAL  ORIGIN  OF  WOMEN 

They  tell  us  that  Woman  was  made  of  a  rib 
Just  piek'd  from  a  corner  so  snug  in  the  side; 

But  the  Rabbins  swear  to  you  that  this  is  a  fib, 
And  'twas  not  so  at  all  that  the  sex  was  sup- 
plied. 

For  old  Adam  was  fashion'd,  the  first  of  his  kind, 
With  a  tail  like  a  monkey,  full  a  yard  and  a 

span; 

And  when  Nature  cut  off  this  appendage  behind, 
Why — then  woman  was  made  of  the  tail  of  the 
man. 

If  such  is  the  tie  between  women  and  men, 
The  ninny  who  weds  is  a  pitiful  elf; 

For  he  takes  to  his  tail,  like  an  idiot,  again, 
And  makes  a  most  damnable  ape  of  himself ! 

Yet,  if  we  may  judge  as  the  fashions  prevail, 
Every  husband  remembers  the  original  plan, 
And,  knowing  his  wife  is  no  more  than  "his  tail, 
Why — he  leaves  her  behind  him  as  much  as  he 
can. 

THOMAS  MOORE. 


Here's  to  wives  and  sweethearts  sweet ! 
May  they  never,  never  meet ! 

Army  Toast. 


THE   TEMPESTUOUS   PETTICOAT       217 

Farewell,  my  Mistress!     I'll  be  gone! 
I  have  friends  to  wait  upon ! 
Think  you,  I'll  myself  confine 
To  your  humours,  Lady  mine? 
No !     Your  lowering-  looks  do  say, 
"'Twill  be  a  rainy  drinking  day; 
To  the  Tavern  let's  away!" 

There  have  I  a  mistress  got 
Cloistered  in  a  Pottle  Pot ! 
Plump  and  bounding,  soft  and  fair, 
Buxom,  sweet  and  debonair; 
And  they  call  her  "Sack,"  my  Dear!  .  .  . 
ANONYMOUS,  Eighteenth  Century. 


UPON  HIMSELF 

I  could  never  love  indeed; 
Never  see  mine  own  heart  bleed; 
Never  crucify  my  life; 
Or  for  Widow,  Maid,  or  Wife. 

I  could  never  seek  to  please 
One,  or  many  Mistresses ; 
Never  like  their  lips,  to  swear 
Oil  of  Roses  still  smelt  there. 

I  could  never  break  my  sleep, 

Fold  mine  arms,  sob,  sigh,  or  weep; 

Never  beg,  or  humbly  woo 

With  oaths,  and  lies,  as  others  do. 


218          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

I  could  never  walk  alone; 
Put  a  shirt  of  sackcloth  on : 
Never  keep  a  fast  and  pray 
For  good  luck  in  love  (that  day). 

But  have  hitherto  lived  free, 
As  the  air  that  circles  me: 
And  kept  credit  with  my  heart, 
Neither  broke  i'  th'  whole,  or  part. 

ROBERT  HERRICK. 


ROSETTE 
(Imitated  from  the  French  of  Beranger.) 

Yes!     I  know  you're  very  fair; 

And  the  rose-bloom  of  your  cheek 
And  the  gold-crown  of  your  hair, 

Seem  of  tender  love  to  speak. 
But  to  me  they  speak  in  vain, 

I  am  growing  old,  my  pet, — 
Ah!  if  I  could  love  you  now 

As  I  used  to  love  Rosette ! 

In  your  carriage  every  day 

I  can  see  you  bow  and  smile; 
Lovers  your  least  word  obey, 

Mistress  you  of  every  wile. 
She  was  poor,  and  went  on  foot, 

Badly  drest,  you  know, — and  yet, — 
Ah !  if  I  could  love  you  now 

As  I  used  to  love  Rosette! 


THE  TEMPESTUOUS  PETTICOAT      219 

You  are  clever,  and  well  known 

For  your  wit  so  quick  and  free ; — 
Now,  Rosette,  I  blush  to  own, 

Scarcely  knew  her  A  B  C; 
But  she  had  a  potent  charm 

In  my  youth: — ah,  vain  regret! 
If  I  could  but  love  you  now 

As  I  used  to  love  Rosette! 


No  age,  no  profession,  no  station  is  free; 
To  sovereign  beauty  mankind  bows  the  knee; 
That  power  resistless  no  strength  can  oppose : 
We  all  love  a  pretty  girl — under  .the  rose. 

"The  Siren." 


LINES  SUGGESTED  BY  THE  FOURTEENTH 
OF  FEBRUARY 

Ere  the  morn  the  East  has  crimsoned, 

When  the  stars  are  twinkling  there, 
(As  they  did  in  Watts'  Hymns,  and 

Made  him  wonder  what  they  were : ) 
When 'the  forest  nymphs  are  beading 

Fern  and  flower  with  silvery  dew — 
My  infallible  proceeding 

Is  to  wake,  and  think  of  you. 


220          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Give  me  hope,  the  least,  the  dimmest, 

Ere  I  drain  the  poisoned  cup: 
Tell  me  I  may  tell  the  chymist 

Not  to  make  that  arsenic  up ! 
Else  the  heart  must  cease  to  throb  in 

This  my  breast;  and  when,  in  tones 
Hushed,  men  ask,  "Who  killed  Cock  Robin?" 

They'll  be  told,  "Miss  Clara  J-     — s." 

C.  S.  CALVEKLEY. 

(Incomplete.) 


There  once  was  a  maiden  of  Siam 
Who  said  to  her  lover,  young  Kiam, 

"If  you  kiss  me,  of  course, 

You  will  have  to  use  force, 
But  God  knows  you  are  stronger  than  I  am.' 


ISABEL 

Now    o'er    the    landscape    crowd    the    deepening 

shades, 
And  the  shut  lily  cradles  not  the  bee : 

The  red  deer  couches  in  the  forest  glades, 
And  faint  the  echoes  of  the  slumberous  sea : 
And  ere  I  rest,  one  prayer  I'll  breathe  for  thee, 

The  sweet  Egeria  of  my  lonely  dreams: 


THE  TEMPESTUOUS  PETTICOAT      221 

Lady,  forgive,  that  ever  upon  me 
Thoughts  of  thee  linger,  as  the  soft  starbeams 
Linger  on  Merlin's  rock,  or  dark  Sabrina's  streams. 


0  Isabel,  the  brightest,  heavenliest  theme 

That  e'er  drew  dreamer  on  to  poesy, 
Since    "Peggy's    locks"    made    Burns    neglect    his 

team, 

And  Stella's  smile  lured  Johnson  from  his  tea — 
I  may  not  tell  thee  what  thou  art  to  me! 
But  ever  dwells  the  soft  voice  in  my  ear, 

Whispering  of  what  Time  is,  what  Man  might 

be, 

Would  he  but  "do  the  duty  that  lies  near," 
And   cut   clubs,  cards,   champagne,  balls,  billiard 
rooms,  and  beer. 

C.  S.  CALVERLEY. 

( Incomplete. ) 


ST.   GEORGE'S,   HANOVER   SQUARE 

She  pass'd  up  the  aisle  on  the  arm  of  her  sire, 
A  delicate  lady  in  bridal  attire, 

Fair  emblem  of  virgin  simplicity; 
Half  London  was  there,  and,  my  word,  there  were 

few 
That  stood  by  the  altar,  or  hid  in  a  pew, 

But  envied  Lord  Nigel's  felicity. 


222          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

0  beautiful  Bride!     So  meek  in  thy  splendour, 
So  frank  in  thy  love,  and  its  trusting  surrender, 

Departing  you  leave  us  the  town  dim! 
May  happiness  wing  to  thy  bosom,  unsought, 
And  may  Nigel,  esteeming  his  bliss  as  he  ought, 

Prove  worthy  thy  worship, — confound  him ! 
FREDERICK  LOCKER. 


A  bachelor  I  will 
Live  as  I  have  liv'd  still, 
And  never  take  a  wife 
To  crucify  my  life. 

ROBERT  HERRICK. 


THE  HINDOO'S  DEATH 

A  Hindoo  died;  a  happy  thing  to  do, 
When  fifty  years  united  to  a  shrew. 
Released,  he  hopefully  for  entrance  cries 
Before  the  gates  of  Brahma's  paradise. 
"Hast  been  through  purgatory?"  Brahma  said. 
"I  have  been  married,"  and  he  hung  his  head. 
"Come  in !  come  in  !     And  welcome  to  my  son ! 
Marriage  and  purgatory  are  as  one." 
In   bliss  extreme  he  entered  heaven's  door 
And  knew  the  bliss  he  ne'er  had  known  before. 

He  scarce  had  entered  in  the  gardens  fair, 
Another  Hindoo  asked  admission  there. 


THE  TEMPESTUOUS  PETTICOAT       223 

The  selfsame  question  Brahma  asked  again: 
"Hast    been    through    purgatory?"     "No;    what 

then?" 

"Thou  canst  not  enter,"  did  the  God  reply. 
"He  who  went  in  was  there  no  more  than  I." 
"All  that  is  true,  but  he  has  married  been, 
And  so  on  earth  has  suffered  for  all  his  sin." 
"Married?    'Tis  well,  for  I've  been  married  twice." 
"Begone!     We'll  have  no  fools  in  Paradise." 

GEORGE  BIRDSEYE. 

When  Eve  upon  the  first  of  men 

The  apple  pressed,  with  specious  cant, 

Oh,  what  a  thousand  pities  then 
That  Adam  was  not  Adamant! 

THOMAS  HOOD. 

THETIS'  SONG 

Man's  so  touchy,  a  word  that's  injurious 
Wakes  his  honour;  he's  sudden  as  fire. 
Woman  kindles  and  is  no  less  furious, 
For  her  trifles,  or  any  desire. 
Man  is  testy 
Or  sour,  or  resty, 
If  balk'd  of  honours,  or  power  or  pelf : 

Woman's  passions  can  no  less  molest  ye, 
And  all  for  reasons  she  keeps  to  herself. 

JOHN  GAY. 

(From  "Achilles.") 


224          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


Drink,  my  jolly  lads,  drink  with  discerning; 

Wedlock's  a  lane  where  there  is  no  turning; 
Never  was  owl  more  blind  than  a  lover, 

Drink  and  be  merry,  lads,  half  seas  over. 

D.  M.  MULOCK. 


"I  SAID  TO  LOVE" 

I  said  to  Love, 
"It  is  not  now  as  in  old  days 
When  men  adored  thee  and  thy  ways 

All  else  above; 

Named  thee  the  Boy,  the  Bright,  the  One 
Who  spread  a  heaven  beneath  the  sun," 

I  said  to  Love. 

I  said  to  him, 

"We  now  know  more  of  thee  than  then ; 
We  were  but  weak  in  judgment  when, 

With  hearts  abrim, 

We  clamored  thee  that  thou  would'st  please 
Inflict  on  us  thine  agonies," 

I  said  to  him. 

I  said  to  Love, 

"Thou  art  not  young,  thou  art  not  fair, 
No  faery  darts,  no  cherub  air, 

Nor  swan,  nor  dove 
Are  thine;  but  features  pitiless, 
And  iron  daggers  of  distress," 

I  said  to  Love. 


THE  TEMPESTUOUS  PETTICOAT       225 

"Depart  then,  Love!  .  .  . 
— Man's  race  shall  end,  dost  threaten  thou? 
The  age  to  come  the  man  of  now 

Know  nothing  of? — 
We  fear  not  such  a  threat  from  thee; 
We  are  too  old  in  apathy! 
Mankind  shall  cease. — So  let  it  be," 

I  said  to  Love. 

THOMAS  HARDY. 

.  .  . 


THE  ONE  WHITE  HAIR 

The  wisest  of  the  wise 
Listen  to  pretty  lies 

And  love  to  hear  them  told: 
Doubt  not  that  Solomon 
Listened  to  many  a  one, — 
Some  in  his  youth,  and  more  when  he  grew  old. 

I  never  was  among 

The  choir  of  Wisdom's  song, 

But  pretty  lies  loved  I, 
As  much  as  any  king 
When  youth  was  on  the  wing. 
And  (must  it  then  be  told)  when  youth  had  quite 
gone  by. 

Alas!  and  I  have  not 
The  pleasant  hour  forgot 


226          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

When  one  pert  lady  said, 
"0  Landor!     I  am  quite 
Bewildered  with  affright! 
I  see  (sit  quiet  now)  a  white  hair  on  your-head!" 

Another  more  benign 
Drew  out  that  hair  of  mine, 

And  in  her  own  dark  hair 
Pretended  it  was  found, 
That  one,  and  twirled  it  round  .  .  . 
Fair  as  she  was,  she  never  was  so  fair ! 

WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 


SIXTEEN 

esil  v.itoiq  <>j 
In  Clementina's  artless  mien 

Lucilla  asks  me  what  I  see — 
And  are  the  roses  of  sixteen 
Enough  for  me? 

Lucilla  asks,  if  that  be  all, 

Have  I  not  culled  as  sweet  beforef 
Ah  yes,  Lucilla,  and  their  fall 
I  still  deplore. 

I  now  behold  another  scene, 

Where  pleasure  beams  with  heaven's  own  light,- 
More  pure,  more  constant,  more  serene, 
And  not  less  bright. 


THE  TEMPESTUOUS  PETTICOAT       227 

Faith,  on  whose  breast  the  Loves  repose, 

Whose  chain  of  flowers  no  force  can  sever; 
And  Modesty,  who,  when  she  goes, 
Is  gone,  forever! 

WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 


A  TRUE  MAID 

No,  no;  for  my  virginity, 
When  I  lose  that,  says  Rose,  I'll  die : 
Behind  the  elms,  last  night,  cried  Dick 
Rose,  were  you  not  extremely  sick? 

MATTHEW  PRIOR. 


A  JOKE  VERSIFIED 

"Come,  come,"  said  Tom's  father,  "at  your  time  of 

life, 
There's  no  longer  excuse  for  thus  playing  the 

rake — 
It   is  time   you   should   think,  boy,   of  taking  a 

wife."— 

"Why,  so  it  is,  father — whose  wife  shall  I  take  f 

THOMAS  MOORE. 


228          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


RONDEAU 

By  two  black  eyes  my  heart  was  won, 
Sure  never  wretch  was  more  outdone ! 

To  Celia  with  my  suit  I  came, 
But  she,  regardless  of  her  prize, 
Thought  proper  to  reward  my  flame 

By  two  black  eyes. 
"An  Asylum  for  Fugitive  Pieces."    1785. 


You  sing  a  little  song  or  two, 
And  you  have  a  little  chat, 
You  make  a  little  candy-fudge, 
And  then  you  take  your  hat. 

You  hold  her  hand  and  say  "Good-night" 
As  sweetly  as  you  can : 
Ain't  that  a  hell  of  an  evening 
For  a  great  big,  healthy  man! 

ANONYMOUS. 


Sir,  you  are  prudent,  good  and  wise, 
I  own  and  thank  you  from  my  heart; 

And  much  approve  what  you  advise, 
But  let  me  think  before  I  start. 


THE   TEMPESTUOUS   PETTICOAT      229 

For  folks  well  able  to  discern, 

Who  know  what  'tis  to  take  a  wife, 

Say  'tis  a  case  of  such  concern 
A  man  should  think  on  't — all  his  life. 


SONG 

Oh,  I'll  reform,  I  will,  I  swear! 
To  Hymen  I'll  address  my  vows, 

And  I'll  beget  a  son  and  heir, 

And  tend  my  sheep,  and  milk  my  cows, 
And  doze  and  fatten  with  my  spouse!  , 


Yes,  I'll  reform! — vain  town,  adieu! 

Henceforth  with  rural  joys  content, 
A  life  of  reason  I'll  pursue; 

Of  all  my  former  sins  repent, 

And  die  a  cuckold  and  a  saint. 

"An  Asylum  for  Fugitive  Pieces."    1785. 


JOY  AND  SORROW  MIX'D  TOGETHER 

Hang  Sorrow!  let's  cast  away  care, 
For  now  I  do  mean  to  be  merry ; 

We'll  drink  some  good  Ale  and  strong  Beer, 
With  Sugar,  and  Claret,  and  Sherry. 


230          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Now  I'll  have  a  wife  of  mine  own: 
I  shall  have  no  need  for  to  borrow; 

I  would  have  it  for  to  be  known 
That  I  shall  be  married  to-morrow! 

RICHARD  CLIMSALL. 

(Incomplete.) 


:HE  JOYS  WE  MISS 


A  silly  poor  shepherd  was  folding  his.  sheep, 
He  walked  so  long  he  got  cold  in  his  feet, 
He  laid  on  his  coals  by  two  and  by  three, 
The  more  he  laid  on 

The  Cu-colder  was  he! 

Old  Song. 


WHEN  DAISIES  PIED  AND  VIOLETS  BLUE 

When  daisies  pied  and  violets  blue 
And  lady-smocks  all  silver  while 
And  cuckoo-buds  of  yellow  hue 
Do  paint  the  meadows  with  delight, 
The  cuckoo  then,  on  every  tree, 
Mocks  married  men;  for  thus  sings  he, 

Cuckoo ; 

Cuckoo,,  cuckoo : — 0  word  of  fear, 
Unpleasing  to  a  married  ear! 

When  shepherds  pipe  on  oaten  straws, 
And  merry  larks  are  ploughmen's  clocks, 
When  turtles  tread,  and  rooks,  and  daws 
And  maidens  bleach  their  summer  smocks, 
The  cuckoo  then,  on  every  tree, 
Mocks  married  men;  for  thus  sings  he, 

Cuckoo ; 

Cuckoo,  cuckoo : — 0  word  of  fear, 
Unpleasing  to  a  married  ear ! 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


"Thou  hast  the  metoposcopy  and  physiognomy 
of  a  cuckold — I  say,  of  a  notorious  and  infamous 
cuckold."  HERR  TRIPPA. 

233 


234          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


THE  THREE  WIVES 

My  First  was  a  lady  whose  dominant  passion 
Was  thorough  devotion  to  parties  and  fashion; 
My  Second,  regardless  of  conjugal  duty, 
Was  only  the  worse  for  her  wonderful  beauty; 
My  Third  was  a  vixen  in  temper  and  life, 
Without  one  essential  to  make  a  good  wife. 
Jubilate!    At  last  in  my  freedom  I  revel, 
For  I'm  clear  of  the  World  and  the  Flesh  and  the 
Devil. 

JOHN  GODFREY  SAXE 


First  when  Maggie  was  my  care, 
Heav'n,  I  thought,  was  in  her  air; 
Now  we're  married — speir  nae  mair, 
But  whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't! 

Meg  was  meek  and  Meg  was  mild, 
Sweet  and  harmless  as  a  child — 
Wiser  men  than  me's  beguiled; 
Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't ! 

How  we  live,  my  Meg  and  me, 
How  we  love,  and  how  we  gree, 
I  care  na  how  few  may  see — 
Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't ! 


THE  JOYS  WE  MISS  235 

Wha  I  wish  were  maggot's  meat, 
Dished  up  in  her  winding-sheet, 
I  could  write — but  Meg  may  see't — 
Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't ! 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


A  GRAIN  OF  SALT 

Of  all  the  wimming  doubly  blest 
The  sailor's  wife's  the  happiest, 
For  all  she  does  is  stay  to  home 
And  knit  and  darn — and  let  'im  roam. 

Of  all  the  husbands  on  the  earth 
The  sailor  has  the  finest  birth, 
For  in  'is  cabin  he  can  sit 
And  sail  and  sail — and  let  'er  knit. 

WALLACE  IRWIN. 


"They  say,  indeed,  that  hardly  shall  a  man  ever 
see  a  fair  woman  that  is  not  also  stubborn." — 
RABELAIS. 


"I  love  cuckolds  with  my  heart."      PANURGE. 


Sacred  to  the  memory  of  Anthony  Drake, 
Who  died  for  peace  and  quietness  sake; 
His  wife  was  constantly  scolding  and  scoffin', 
So  he  sought  for  repose  in  a  twelve-dollar  coffin. 
(In  Burlington  Churchyard,  Mass.) 


236          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


CONNUBIAL  COMPANY 

"My  dear,  what  makes  you  always  yawn?'' 
The  wife  exclaimed,  her  temper  gone; 

"Is  home  so  dull  and  dreary?" 
"Not  so,  my  love,"  he  said,  "not  so ; 
But  man  and  wife  are  one,  you  know, 

And  when  alone  I'm  weary." 

Eighteenth  Century  Epigram. 


Charity,  wife  of  Gideon  Bligh, 
Undenieath  this  stone  doth  lie. 
Nought  was  she  e'er  known  to  do 
That  her  husband  told  her  to. 

(In  a  Devonshire  Churchyard.) 


THE  STORY  OF  URIAH 

'Now  there  were  two  men  in  one  city;  the  one  rich 
and  the  other  poor." 

Jack  Barrett  went  to  Quetta 

Because  they  told  him  to. 
He  left  his  wife  at  Simla 

On  three-fourths  his  monthly  screw : 
Jack  Barrett  died  at  Quetta 

Ere  the  next  month's  pay  he  drew. 

Jack  Barrett  went  to  Quetta. 
He  didn't  understand 


THE  JOYS  WE  MISS  237 

The  reason  of  his  transfer 

From  the  pleasant  mountain-land: 
The  season  was  September, 

And  it  killed  him  out  of  hand. 


Jack  Barrett  went  to  Quetta, 
And  there  gave  up  the  ghost, 

Attempting  two  men's  duty 
In  that  very  healthy  post; 

And  Mrs.  Barrett  mourned  for  him 
Five  lively  months  at  most. 

Jack  Barrett's  bones  at  Quetta 

Enjoy  profound  repose; 
But  I  shouldn't  be  astonished 

If  now  his  spirit  knows 
The  reason  of  his  transfer 

From  the  Himalayan  snows. 

And,  -when  the  Last  Great  Bugle  Call 

Adown  the  Hurnai  throbs, 
When  the  last  grim  joke  is  entered 

In  the  big  black  Book  of  Jobs, 
And  Quetta  graveyards  give  again 

Their  victims  to  the  air, 
I  shouldn't  like  to  be  the  man 

Who  sent  Jack  Barrett  there. 

RUDYARD  KIPLING. 


238          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


THE  FAMILY  MAN 

I  once  was  a  jolly  young  beau, 
And  knew  how  to  pick  up  a  fan, 

But  I've  done  with  all  that,  you  must  know, 
For  now  I'm  a  family  man ! 

When  a  partner  I  ventured  to  take, 
The  ladies  all  favoured  the  plan ; 

They  vowed  I  was  certain  to  make  « 

"Such  an  excellent  family  man!" 

If  I  travel  by  land  or  by  water, 

I  have  charge  of  some  Susan  or  Ann ; 

Mrs.  Brown  is  so  sure  that  her  daughter 
Is  safe  with  a  family  man ! 

The  trunks  and  the  band-boxes  round  'em 
With  something  like  horror  I  scan, 

But  though  I  may  mutter,  "Confound  'em !" 
I  smile — like  a  family  man. 

I  once  was  as  gay  as  a  templar, 

But  levity's  now  under  ban ; 
Young  people  must  have  an  exemplar, 

And  I  am  a  family  man ! 

The  club-men  I  meet  in  the  city 
All  treat  me  as  well  as  they  can ; 

And  only  exclaim,  ''What  a  pity 
Poor  Tom  is  a  family  man !" 


THE  JOYS  WE  MISS  239 

I  own  I  am  getting  quite  pensive; 

Ten  children,  from  David  to  Dan, 
Is  a  family  rather  extensive : 

But  then — I'm  a  family  man! 

JOHN  GODFREY  SAXE. 


Misfortunes  never  come  single, 
And  so,  like  birds  of  a  feather, 
The  marriages  and  the  deaths 
Are  always  printed  together. 


KING'S  SONG 

You  grow  up,  and  you  discover 
What  it  is  to  be  a  lover. 
Some  young  lady  is  selected — 
Poor,  perhaps,  but  well-connected — 
Whom  you  hail  (for  Love  is  blind) 
As  the  Queen  of  fairy  kind. 
Though  she's  plain — perhaps  unsightly, 
Makes  her  face  up — laces  tightly, 
In  her  form  your  fancy  traces 
All  the  gifts  of  all  the  graces. 
Rivals  none  the  maiden  woo, 
So  you  take  her  and  she  takes  you.  . 
Ten  years  later — Time  progresses — 
Sours  your  temper — thins  your  tresses. 


240          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Fancy,  then,  her  chain  relaxes; 
Kates  are  facts  and  so  are  taxes. 
Fairy  Queen's  no  longer  young — 
Fairy  Queen  has  got  a  tongue. 
Twins  have  probably  intruded — 
Quite  unbidden — just  as  you  did. — 
They're  a  source  of  care  and  trouble — 
Just  as  you  were — only  double. 
Comes  at  last  the  final  stroke — 
Time  has  had  his  little  joke.  .  .  . 


Lastly  when 
Threescore  and  ten 
(And  not  till  then) 
The  joke  is  over. 

Ho!  Ho!  Ho!  Ho!  Ho!  Ho!  Ho!  Ho! 
Then — and  then 
The  joke  is  over. 

W.  S.  GILBERT. 

(From  "Utopia  Limited.") 


"I'd  trust  my  husband  anywhere,"  she  said ; 

"My  faith  in  him  is  full,  'tis  satisfied : 
I  know  that  all  his  thoughts  are  fair,"  she  said, 

"I  know  he'd  put  temptations  all  aside. 

"I  know  that  he  is  strong,  sublime,"  she  said, 
"I  know  that  all  his  love  is  mine  for  e'er; 

"I'd  trust  my  husband  anywhere,"  she  said — 
"Unless  a  woman  happened  to  be  there." 

S.  E.  KISER. 


THE  JOYS  WE  MISS  241 


EPITAPH  ON  A  HENPECKED  SQUIRE 

As  Father  Adam  first  was  fooled, 
(A  case  that's  still  too  common), 

Here  lies  a  man  a  woman  ruled; 
The  devil  ruled  the  woman. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


Farewell,  dear  wife !  my  life  is  past ; 
I  loved  you  while  my  life  did  last; 
Don't  grieve  for  me,  or  sorrow  take 
But  love  my  brother  for  my  sake. 

(In  a  Churchyard  at  Saratoga.} 


MY  WIFE'S  COUSIN 

.  .  .  "Mary,  wife,  where  art  thou,  dearest?" 

Thus  I  cry,  while  yet  afar; 
Ah,  what  scent  invades  my  nostrils? — 

'Tis  the  smoke  of  a  cigar! 
Instantly  into  the  parlour 

Like  a  maniac  I  haste, 
And  I  find  a  young  Life-Guardsman 

With  his  arm  round  Mary's  waist. 

.  .  .  "Fires  and  furies!  what  the  blazes'?" 
Thus  in  frenzied  wrath  I  call; 


242          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

.  When  my  spouse  her  arm  upraises 
With  a  most  astounding  squall. 

"Was  there  ever  such  a  monster? 

Ever  such  a  wretched  wife? 
Oh!  how  long  must  I  endure  it, 

How  protract  this  hateful  life? 
All  day  long  quite  unprotected, 

Does  he  leave  his  wife  at  home ; 
And  she  cannot  see  her  cousins, 

Even  when  they  kindly  come!" 

...  In  fear  I  faintly  falter 

"This  your  cousin? — Then  he's  mine! 

Very  glad,  indeed,  to  see  you. — 
Won't  you  stop  with  us  and  dine?" 

Won't  a  ferret  suck  a  rabbit? 

As  a  thing  of  course  he  stops 
And  with  most  voracious  swallow  • 

Walks  into  my  mutton  chops. 
In  the  twinkling  of  a  bed-post 

Is  each  savory  platter  clear, 
And  he  shows  uncommon  science 

In  his  estimate  of  beer. 

Half  and  half  goes  down  before  him, 

Gurgling  from  the  pewter-pot; 
And  he  moves  a  counter  motion 

For  a  glass  of  something  hot. 
Neither  chops  nor  beer  I  grudge  him, 

Nor  a  moderate  share  of  goes; 
But  I  know  not  why  he's  always 

Treading  upon  Mary's  toes. 


THE  JOYS  WE  MISS  243 

Evennore  when  home  returning. 

From  the  counting-house  I  come, 
Do  I  find  the  young  Life-Guardsman 

Smoking  pipes  and  drinking  rum. 


Yet  I  know  he's  Mary's  cousin 

For  my  only  son  and  heir 
Much  resembles  that  young  Guardsman 

With  the  self-same  curly  hair. 

W.  E.  AYTOUN. 

(Incomplete.) 


CONCERNING  SISTERS-IN-LAW 


They  looked  so  alike  as  they  sat  at  their  work, 

(What  a  pity  'tis  that  one  isn't  a  Turk !) 

The  same  glances  and  smiles,  the  same  habits  and 

arts, 
The  same  tastes,  the  same  frocks,  and  (no  doubt) 

the  same  hearts, 

The  same  irresistible  cut  in  their  jibs, 
The  same  little  jokes,  and  the  same  little  fibs — 
That  I  thought  the  best  way  to  get  out  of  my  pain 
Was  by — heads  for  Maria,  and  woman  for  Jane; 
For  hang  me  if  it  seemed  it  could  matter  a  straw, 
Which  dear  became  wife,  and  which  sister-in-law. 


244          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


II 

But  now,  I  will  own,  I  feel  rather  inclined 
To  suspect  I've  some  reason  to  alter  my  mind; 
And  the  doubt  in  my  breast  daily  grows  a  more 

strong  one, 
That  they're  not  quite  alike,  and  I've  taken  the 

wrong  one. 

Jane  is  always  so  gentle,  obliging,  and  cool; 
Never  calls  me  a  monster — not  even  a  fool ; 
All  our  little  contentions,  'tis  she  makes  them  up, 
And  she  knows  how  much  sugar  to  put  in  my 

cup : — 
Yes,  I  sometimes  have  wished — Heav'n.  forgive  me 

.the  flaw ! — 

That  my  very  dear  wife  was  my  sister-in-law. 

Punch. 


Here  lies  my  poor  wife,  without  bed  or  blanket ; 
But  dead  as  a  door-nail :  God  be  thankit. 

OLDYS'  Collection  of  Epigrams. 


When  Pontius  wished  an  edict  might  be  passed 
That  cuckolds  should  into  the  sea  be  cast, 
His  wife,  assenting,  thus  replied  to  him : 
"But  first,  my  dear,  I'd  have  you  learn  to  swim." 

PRIOR  (?) 

(Oldys'  "Collection  of  Epigrams.") 


THE  JOYS  WE  MISS  245 

COURTSHIP  AND  MATRIMONY 
A  poem,  in  two  cantos. 

CANTO  THE  FIEST. 
COURTSHIP. 

Faii-est  of  earth !  if  thou  wilt  hear  my  vow, 
Lo!  at  thy  feet  I  swear  to  love  thee  ever; 

And  by  this  kiss  upon  thy  radiant  brow, 
Promise  affection  which  no  time  shall  sever; 

And  love  which  e'er  shall  burn  as  bright  as  now, 
To  be  extinguished — never,  dearest,  never! 

Wilt  thou  that  naughty,  fluttering  heart  resign? 

CATHERINE!   my  own  sweet   Kate!  wilt  thou   be 
mine? 

Thou  shalt  have  pearls  to  deck  thy  raven  hair — 
Thou  shalt  have  all  this  world  of  ours  can  bring, 

And  we  will  live  in  solitude,  nor  care 

For  aught  save  for  each  other.     We  will  fling 

Away  all  sorrow — Eden  shall  be  there! 

And  thou  shalt  be  my  queen,  and  I  thy  king! 

Still  coy,  and  still  reluctant?     Sweetheart  say, 

When  shall  we  monarchs  be?  and  which  the  day? 

CANTO  THE  SECOND. 
MATRIMONY. 

Now,  Mrs.  Pringle,  once  for  all,  I  say 

I  will  not  such  extravagance  allow! 
Bills  upon  bills,  and  larger  every  day, 

Enough  to  drive  a  man  to  drink,  T  vow ! 


246          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Bonnets,  gloves,  frippery  and  trash — nay,  nay, 

Tears,  Mrs.  Pringle,  will  not  gull  me  now — 
I  say  I  won't  allow  ten  pounds  a  week; 
I  can't  afford  it ;  madam,  do  not  speak ! 


In  wedding  you  I  thought  I  had  a  treasure; 

I  find  myself  most  miserably  mistaken ! 
You  rise  at  ten,  then  spend  the  day  in  pleasure; — 

In  fact,  my  confidence  is  slightly  shaken. 
Ha!    what's   that   uproar?     This,   ma'am,    is   my 
leisure ; 

Sufficient  noise  the  slumbering  dead  to  waken ! 
I  seek  retirement,  and  I  find — a  riot; 
Confound  those  children,  but  I'll  make  them  quiet ! 

Punch. 


ON  A  SHREW 

After  some  three-score  years  of  caterwawling, 
Here  lies  a  shrew,  stopt  from  above-ground  bawl- 
ing. 

Tho*  ill  she  liv'd,  I  dare  not  read  her  doom ; 
But  sure,  go  where  she  will,  she's  troublesome. 
I  wish  her,  in  revenge,  among  the  blest: 
For  she'd  as  lief  be  damn'd,  as  be  at  rest. 

OLDYS'  Collection. 

(Incomplete.) 


THE  JOYS  WE  MISS  247 


UPON  A  WIFE  THAT  DIED  MAD  WITH 
JEALOUSY 

In  this  little  Vault  she  lies, 
Here  with  all  her  jealousies  j 
Quiet  yet;  but  if  ye  make 
Any  noise,  they  both  will  wake, 
And  such  spirits  raise,  'twill  then 
Trouble  Death  to  lay  again. 

ROBERT  HERRICK. 


, 


"The  stork  has  brought  a  little  peach !" 
The  nurse  said  with  an  air. 

"I'm  mighty  glad,"  the  father  said, 
"He  didn't  bring  a  pair." 

' 


248          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  HUMBUGGED 
HUSBAND 

She's  not  what  fancy  painted  her — 

I'm  sadly  taken  in : 
If  some  one  else  had  won  her,  I 

Should  not  have  cared  a  pin. 

I  thought  that  she  was  mild  and  good 

As  maiden  e'er  could  be; 
I  wonder  how  she  ever  could 

Have  so  much  humbuggM  me. 

They  cluster  round  and  shake  my  hand — 

They  tell  me  I  am  blest : 
My  case  they  do  not  understand — 

I  think  that  I  know  best. 

They  say  she's  fairest  of  the  fair* — 
They  drive  me  mad  and  madder. 

What  do  they  mean  by  it?     I  swear 
I  only  wish  they  had  her. 

'Tis  true  that  she  has  lovely  locks, 
That  on  her  shoulders  fall; 

What  would  they  say  to  see  the  box 
In  which  she  keeps  them  all? 

Her  taper  fingers,  it  is  true, 

'Twere  difficult  to  match  : 
What  would  they  say  if  they  but  knew 

How  terribly  they  scratch? 

Punch. 


THE  JOYS  WE  MISS  249 

THE  ORIENTAL  WAY 

The  fond  husband  will,  after  conjugal  strife, 
Kiss,  forgive,  weep  and  fall  on  the  neck  of  his 

wife. 

But  Abomileque's  wife  other  conduct  may  dread; 
When  he  falls  on  her  neck,  'tis  to  cut  off  her  head. 

How  many  there  are,  when  a  wife  plays  the  fool, 
Will  argue  the  point  with  her,  calmly  and  cool; 
The  bashaw,  who  don't  relish  debates  of  this  sort, 
Cuts  the  woman  as  well  as  the  argument  short. 
GEORGE  COLMAN  THE  YOUNGER. 

("Blue  Beard.") 
(Incomplete.) 


Father  heard  his  children  scream, 
So  he  threw  them  in  the  stream, 
Saying,  as  he  drowned  the  third, 
"Children  should  be  seen,  not  heard !" 


EPIGRAM 

Tom  prais'd  his  friend  (who  changed  his  state) 
For  binding  fast  himself  and  Kate 

In  union  so  divine: 
"Wedlock's  the  end  of  life,"  he  cried. 
"Too  true,  alas !"  said  Jack,  and  sigh'd. — 
— "  'Twill  be  the  end  of  mine." 

"New  Foundling  Hospital  for  Wit."     1786. 


250          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


ON  A  SCOLD 

Here  lies  a  woman,  no  man  can  deny  it, 
Who  rests  in  peace,  although  she  lived  unquiet, 
Her  husband  prays  you,  if  by  her  grave  you  walk 
You  gently  tread,  for  if  she  wake,  she'll  talk. 

•    Sixteenth  Century  Epigram. 


DUCAT'S  SONG 


He  that  weds  a  beauty 

Soon  will  find  her  cloy; 
When  pleasure  grows  a  duty, 

Farewell  love  and  joy: 
He  that  weds  for  treasure 

(Though  he  hath  a  wife) 
Hath  chose  one  lasting  pleasure 

In  a  married  life. 

JOHN  GAY. 
("Polly.") 


EPITAPH  ON  THE  LAP-DOG  OF  LADY 
FRAIL  (Lady  Vane) 

At  thieves  I  bark'd,  at  lovers  wagg*d  my  tail, 
And  thus  I  pleased  both  Lord  and  Lady  Frail. 

WILKES. 


THE  JOYS  WE  MISS  251 


A  CATCH 

Now  I'm  married,  the  priest  I'll  not  curse; 
He  joins  us  together,  for  better,  for  worse; 
But  if  I  were  single,  I  tell  you  plain, 
I  would  be  advised  ere  I  married  again. 

Seventeenth  Century  Epigram. 


Late  last  night  I  slew  my  wife, 
Stretched  her  on  the  parquet  flooring: 
I  was  loath  to  take  her  life, 
But  I  had  to  stop  her  snoring. 


DAMARIS'  SONG 

When  kings  by  their  huffing 
Have  blown  up  a  squabble, 

All  the  charge  and  cuffing 
Light  upon  the  rabble. 

Thus  when  man  and  wife 

By  their  mutual  snubbing, 
Kindle  civil  strife, 

Servants  get  the  drubbing. 

JOHN  GAT. 
("Polly.") 


252          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


THE  WISE  CHILD 

How  plain  your  little  darling  says  "Mamma," 
But  still  she  calls  you  ''Doctor,"  not  "Papa." 
One  thing  is  clear:  your  conscientious  rib 
Has  not  yet  taught  the  pretty  dear  to  fib. 

After  LESSING. 


"What?  rise  again  with  all  one's  bones," 
Quoth  Giles,  "I  hope  you  fib : 

I  trusted,  when  I  went  to  heaven, 
To  go  without  my  rib." 

S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 


THE  PER-CONTRA,  OR  MATRIMONIAL 
BALANCE 

How  strange,  a  deaf  wife  to  prefer! 
True,  but  she's  also  dumb,  good  sir. 

After  MESSING. 


This  spot  is  the  sweetest  I've  seen  in  my  life, 
For  it  raises  my  flowers  and  covers  my  wife. 
(From  a  Churchyard  in  Wales.) 


THE  JOYS  WE  MISS  253 

What  servants  hear  and  see 

Should  they  tattle, 
Marriage  all  day  would  be 
Feuds  and  battle. 

JOHN  GAY. 
("Polly.") 


Old  Nick,  who  taught  the  village  school, 

Wedded  a  maid  of  homespun  habit; 
He  was  stubborn  as  a  mule, 
'  She  was  playful  as  a  rabbit. 

Poor  Jane  had  scarce  become  a  wife, 
Before  her  husband  sought  to  make  her 

The  pink  of  country-polished  life, 
And  prim  and  formal  as  a  Quaker. 

One  day  the  tutor  went  abroad, 
And  simple  Jenny  sadly  missed  him; 

When  he  returned,  behind  her  lord 
She  slyly  stole,  and  fondly  kissed  him ! 

The  husband's  anger  rose ! — and  red 
And  white  his  face  alternate  grew! 

"Less  freedom,  ma'am!" — Jane  sighed  and  said 
"Oh,  dear!    I  didn't  know  'twas  you!" 

GEORGE  P.  MORRIS. 


254          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

There  was  a  young  man  from  Elora, 
Who  married  a  girl  called  Lenora, 

But  he  had  not  been  wed 

Very  long  till  he  said, 
"Oh,  drat  it!     I've  married  a  snorer!" 


A  FAREWELL  TO  WIVES 

Once  in  our  lives, 
Let  us.  drink  to  our  Wives ! 
Though  the  number  of  them  is  but  small. 

God  take  the  best; 
And  the  Devil  take  the  rest ! 
And  so  we  shall  be  rid  of  them  all. 

ANOXYMOUS.     Seventeenth  Century. 


There  was  a  young  husband  named  Dwightly 
Whose  wife  flirted  morn,  noon,  and  nightly: 

He  murmured,  "Dear,  dear! 

I  would  fain  interfere, 
If  I  knew  how  to  do  it  politely." 

My  wife  is  dead,  and  here  she  lies, 
Nobody  laughs  and  nobody  cries : 
Where  she  is  gone  to  and  how  she  fares, 
Nobody  knows,  and  nobody  cares. 
(Painswick  Churchyard,  near  Stroud, 
Gloucestershire.) 


OUR  FATHERS  AFORE  US 


"//  sack  and  sugar  be  a  fault,  God  help  the 
wicked!  if  to  be  old  and  merry  be  a  sin,  then  many 
an  old  host  that  I  know  is  damned." 

King  Henry  IV,  Part  I,  Act  II,  Sc.  iv. 


. 


OF  ALL  THE  BIRDS  THAT  EVER  I  SEE 

Of  all  the  birds  that  ever  I  see, 
The  owl  is  the  fairest  in  her  degree; 
For  all  the  day  long1  she  sits  in  a  tree, 
And  when  the  night  comes,  away  flies  she: 
Te-whit  te-whoo!  to  whom  drink'st  thou? 

Sir  Knave,  to  you. 

This  song  is  well  sung  I  make  you  a  vow, 
And  he  is  a  knave  that  drinketh  now: 

Nose,  nose,  jolly  red  nose, 

And  who  gave  thee  that  jolly  red  nose? 

Cinnamon,  ginger,  nutmegs,  and  cloves, 

And  that  gave  me  my  jolly  red  nose. 

Old  Catch. 
Late  sixteenth  century. 


Cast  away  care !  he  that  loves  sorrow 
Lengthens  not  a  day,  nor  can  buy  to-morrow; 
Money  is  trash;  and  he  that  will  spend  it, 
Let  him  drink  merrily,  Fortune  will  send  it. 

Merrily,  merrily,  merrily,  oh,  ho ! 

Play  it  off  stiffly,  we  may  not  part  so. 

THOMAS  DEKKEB. 

("The  Sun's  Darling.") 
257 


258          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


NOW  GOD  BE  WITH  OLD*  SIMEON 

Now  God  be  with  old  Simeon, 

For  he  made  cans  for  many  an  one; 

And  a  good  old  man  was  he; 

And  Jinkin  was  his  journeyman, 

And  he  could  tipple  off  every  can, 

And  thus  he  said  to  me : 

To  whom  drink  you? 

Sir  Knave,  to  you. 

Then  hey  ho,  jolly  Jinkin, 

I  spy  a  knave  a  drinking, 

Come  trowl  the  bowl  to  me. 

Old  Catch. 
Late  sixteenth  century. 


OLD  SIMON  THE  KING 

If  a  man  should  be  drunk  to-night, 
And  laid  in  his  grave  to-morrow, 
Will  you  or  any  man  say 
That  he  died  of  care  and  sorrow? 
Then  hang  up  all  sorrow  and  care, 
'Tis  able  to  kill  a  cat, 
And  he  that  will  drink  all  night 
Is  never  afraid  of  that; 
For  drinking  will  make  a  man  quaff, 
And  quaffing  will  make  a  man  sing, 
And  singing  will  make  a  man  laugh, 
And  laughing  long  life  doth  bring, 
Says  old  Simon  the  King. 


OUR  FATHERS  AFORE  US        259 

Considering  in  my  mind, 
I  thus  began  to  think: 
If  a  man  be  full  to  the  throat, 
And  cannot  take  off  his  drink, 
If  his  drink  will  not  go  down, 
He  may  hang  up  himself  for  shame, 
So  the  tapster  at  the  Crown. 
Whereupon  this  reason  I  frame: 
Drink  will  make  a  man  drunk, 
Drunk  will  make  a  man  dry, 
Dry  will  make  a  man  sick, 
And  sick  will  make  a  man  die, 
Says  old  Simon  the  King. 

If  a  Puritan  skinker  do  cry, 
Dear  brother,  it  is  a  sin 
To  drink  unless  you  be  dry, 
Then  straight  this  tale  I  begin : 
A  Puritan  left  his  can 
And  took  him  to  his  jug, 
And  there  he  played  the  man 
As  long  as  he  could  tug; 
And  when  that  he  was  spied, 
Did  ever  he  swear  or  rail? 
No,  truly,  dear  brother,  he  cried, 
Indeed  all  flesh  is  frail, 

Says  old  Simon  the  King. 
ANONYMOUS.    Early  Seventeenth  Century. 

(Incomplete.) 


260          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


WE  BE  SOLDIERS  THREE 

We  be  soldiers  three, 

Pardonnez-moi  je  vous  en  prie, 
Lately  come  forth  of  the  Low  Country, 

With  never  a  penny  of  money, 
Fa  la  la  la.  ... 

Here,  good  fellow,  I  drink  to  thee, 
Pardonnez-moi  je  vous  en  prie, 

To  all  good  fellows  wherever  they  be, 
With  never  a  penny  of  money. 

And  he  that  will  not  pledge  me  this, 
Pardonnez-moi  je  vous  en  prie, 

Pays  for  the  shot  whatever  it  is, 
With  never  a  penny  of  money. 

Charge  it  again,  boy,  charge  it  again, 

Pardonnez-moi  je  vous  en  prie, 
As  long  as  there  is  any  ink  in  thy  pen, 
With  never  a  penny  of  money, 
Fa  la  la  la  lantido  dilly ! 

Old  Catch. 
Early  Seventeenth  Century. 


We  care  not  for  money,  riches,  or  wealth ; 
Old  sack  is  our  money,  old  sack  is  our  health. 
THOMAS  RANDOLPH. 


OUR  FATHERS  AFORE  US         261 


OLD  ROSE 

Now  we're  met  like  jovial  fellows, 
Let  us  do  as  wise  men  tell  us, 
Sing  Old  Rose  and  burn  the  bellows: 
Let  us  do  as  wise  men  tell  us. 

When  the  jowl  with  claret  glows, 
And  wisdom  shines  upon  the  nose, 
0  then  is  the  time  to  sing  Old  Rose, 
And  burn,  burn,  burn  the  bellows. 

Old  Song. 
Mid-seventeenth  century. 


A  CATCH  ROYAL 

Let  the  drawer  run  down; 

We'll  sit  and  drink  the  sun  down : 

Here's  a  jolly  health  to  the  King! 
Let  him  be  confounded 
And  hang'd  up  for  a  Roundhead, 

That  will  not  pledge  me  a  spring; 
Next  to  Lady  Mary 
This  beer-bowl  of  Canary, 

I'll  pledge't  a  carouse  were  it  ten; 
When  Charles  his  thoughts  are  eased, 
And  his  great  heart  appeased, 

We'll  drink  the  sun  up  again. 

THOMAS  JORDAN. 
(Died  1685.) 


262          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


COME,  THOU  MONARCH  OF  THE  VINE 

Come,  thou  monarch  of  the  vine, 
Plumpy  Bacchus  with  pink  eyne! 
In  thy  vats  our  cares  be  drown'd, 
With  thy  grapes  our  hairs  be  crown'd : 
Cup  us,  till  the  world  go  round, 
Cup  us,  till  the  world  go  round ! 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


Then  call,  and  drink  up  all, 

The  drawer  is  ready  to  fill: 
Pox  take  care,  what  need  we  to  spare? 

My  Father  has  made  his  will. 

Old  Catch. 


DO  NOTHING  BUT  EAT,  AND  MAKE  GOOD 
CHEER 

Do  nothing  but  eat,  and  make  good  cheer, 
And  praise  God  for  the  merry  year ; 
When  flesh  is  cheap  and  females  dear, 
And  lusty  lads  roam  here  and  there, 

So  merrily, 
And  ever  among  so  merrily. 

Be  merry,  be  merry,  my  wife  has  all, 

For  women  are  shrews,  both  short  and  tall ; 


OUR  FATHERS  AFORE  US         263 

"Tis  merry  in  hall  when  beards  wag  all, 
And  welcome  merry  Shrove-tide. 
Be  merry,  be  merry,  etc. 

A  cup  of  wine  that's  brisk  and  fine, 
And  drink  unto  the  leman  mine; 

And  a  merry  heart  lives  long-a. 
Fill  the  cup  and  let  it  come, 
I'll  pledge  you  a  mile  to  the  bottom. 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 
(Henry  IV,  Pt.  2,  Act  V,  Sc.  iii.) 


SONG 

Drink,  to-day;  and  drown  all  sorrow! 
You  shall,  perhaps,  not  do't  to-morrow! 
Best,  while  you  have  it,  use  your  breath! 
There  is  no  drinking  after  death! 

Wine  works  the  heart  up !     Wakes  the  wit ! 
There  is  no  cure  'gainst  Age  but  it ! 
It  helps  the  headache,  cough,  and  phthisic! 
And  is,  for  all  diseases,  physic ! 

Then  let  us  swill,  boys !  for  our  health ! 
Who  drinks  well  loves  the  commonwealth! 
And  he  that  will  to  bed  go  sober, 
Falls  with  the  leaf  still  in  October. 

JOHN  FLETCHER. 
(From  "The  Bloody  Brother.") 


261          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


GOD  LY^US,  EVER  YOUNG 

God  Lyaeus,  ever  young, 

Ever  honoured,  ever  sung, 

Stained  with  blood  of  lusty  grapes, 

In  a  thousand  lusty  shapes, 

Dance  upon  the  mazer's  brim, 

In  the  crimson  liquor  swim ; 

From  thy  plenteous  hand  divine 

Let  a  river  run  with  wine : 

God  of  youth,  let  this  Jay  here 
Enter  neither  care  nor  fear! 

JOHN  FLETCHER. 


THE  SECOND  THREE  MEN'S  SONG 

Cold's  the  wind,  and  wet's  the  rain, 
Saint  Hugh  be  our  good  speed! 

Ill  is  the  weather  that  bringeth  no  gain, 
Nor  helps  good  hearts  in  need. 

Troll  the  bowl,  the  jolly  nut-brown  bowl, 
And  here,  kind  mate,  to  thee ! 

Let's  sing  a  dirge  for  Saint  Hugh's  soul, 
And  down  it  merrily. 

Down-adown,  hey,  down-adown, 
Hey  derry  derry  down-adown ! 

Ho !  well  done,  to  me  let  come, 
Ring  compass,  gentle  joy ! 


OUR  FATHERS  AFORE  US         265 

Troll  the  bowl,  the  nut-brown  bowl, 
And  here,  kind  mate,  to  thee,  etc. 

Repeat  as  often  as  there  be  men  to  drink;  and 
when  at  last  all  have  drunk,  this  verse: — 

Cold's  the  wind,  and  wet's  the  rain, 
Saint  Hugh  be  our  good  speed ! 

Ill  is  the  weather  that  bringeth  no  gain, 
Nor  helps  good  hearts  in  need. 

THOMAS  DEKKER. 

("The  Shoemaker's  Holiday."    Act  V,  Sc.  iv.) 


A  ROUND 

All 

Now  that  the  Spring  hath  filFd  our  veins 

With  kind  and  active  fire, 
And  made  green  liv'ries  for  the  plains, 

And  every  grove  a  quire: 

Sing  we  a  song  of  merry  glee, 

And  Bacchus  fill  the  bowl. 
1.  Then  here's  to  thee ;  2.  And  thou  to  me, 

And  every  thirsty  soul. 

Nor  Care  nor  Sorrow  e'er  paid  debt, 

Nor  never  shall  do  mine; 
I  have  no  cradle  going  yet, 

Not  I,  by  this  good  wine. 


266          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

No  wife  at  home  to  send  for  me, 
No  hogs  are  in  my  ground, 

No  suit  in  law  to  pay  a  fee, 
Then  round,  old  Jocky,  round. 

All 

Shear  sheep  that  have  them,  cry  we  still, 
But  see  that  no  man  'scape 
To  drink  of  the  sherry, 
That  makes  us  so  merry, 
And  plump  as  the  lusty  grape. 

WILLIAM  BROWNE.     (1591-1643.) 


Let  minions  marshal  every  hair, 

And  in  a.  lover's  lock  delight, 
And  artificial  colours  wear: 

Pure  wine  is  native  red  and  white. 

Some  men  want  youth,  and  others  health, 
Some  want  a  wife,  and  some  a  punk, 

Some  men  want  wit,  and  others  wealth, 
But  they  want  nothing  that  are  drunk. 

Old  Song. 


Come,  let  us  drink,  the  time  invites, 

Winter  and  cold  weather, 
For  to  pass  away  long  nights 

And  to  keep  good  wits  together. 

Old  Song. 


OUR  FATHERS  AFORE  US        267 


ALE'S  A  STRONG  WRESTLER 

Ale's  a  strong  wrestler, 
Flings  all  it  hath  met; 
And  makes  the  ground  slippery, 
Though  it  be  not  wet. 


The  whining  lover  that  doth  place 

His  fancy  on  a  painted  face, 

And  wastes  his  substance  in  the  chase, 

Would  ne'er  in  melancholy  pine, 

Had  he  affections  so  divine, 

As  once  to  fall  in  love  with  wine  .  .  . 

Come,  fill  my  cup  until  it  swim 

With  foam  that  overlooks  the  brim. 

Who  drinks  the  deepest?     Here's  to  him! 

JOHN  CLEVELAND. 
(From  "A  Song  of  Sack.") 


THE  COBBLER'S  CATCH 

Come  sit  we  by  the  fire's  side 
And  roundly  drink  we  here 

Till  that  we  see  our  cheeks  ale-dyed 
And  noses  tanned  with  beer. 

ROBERT  HERRICK 


268          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


A  CATCH 

Drink,  boys;  drink,  boys,  and  do  not  spare, 

Trowl  away  the  bowl,  and  take  no  care. 

So  that  we  have  meat  and  drink,  and  money  and 

clothes, 
What  care  we,  boys,  how  the  world  goes? 

Choice  Drollery.     1656. 


'Tis  my  will  when  I  die,  not  a  tear  shall  be  shed, 
No  Hie  Jacet  be  graved  on  my  stone, 
But  pour  o'er  my  coffin  a  bottle  of  red, 
And  write  that  Ilis  Drinking  Is  Done. 

Old  Song. 


SONG 

In  spite  of  love  at  length  I've  found 

A  mistress  that  can  please  me, 
Her  humour  free  and  unconfined 

Both  night  and  day  she'll  ease  me. 
No  jealous  thoughts  disturb  my  mind, 
Though  she's  enjoyed  by  all  mankind; 
Then  drink  and  never  spare  it, 
'Tis  a  bottle  of  good  claret!  .  .  . 


OUR  FATHERS  AFORE  US         269 

But  best  of  all,  she  has  no  tongue, 

Submissive  she  obeys  me, 
She's  fully  better  old  than  young, 

And  still  so  smiling  sways  me; 
Her  skin  is  smooth,  complection  black, 
And  has  a  most  delicious  smack; 
Then  kiss  and  never  spare  it, 
'Tis  a  bottle  of  good  claret! 

Early  Eighteenth  Century. 

This  reading  from  Ramsay's  "Tea  Table  Mis- 
cellany." 

( Incomplete. ) 


IF  SORROW,  THE  TYRANT,  INVADE  THE 
BREAST 

If  Sorrow,  the  tyrant,  invade  the  breast, 
Haul  out  the  foul  fiend  by  the  lug,  the  lug! 

Let  no  thought  of  the  morrow  disturb  your  rest, 
But  banish  despair  in  a  mug,  a  mug! 

Or  if  "thy  wife  prove  none  of  the  best, 
Or  admits  no  time  but  to  think,  to  think, 

Or  the  weight  of  thy  horns  bow  down  thy  crest, 
Divert  the  dull  Demon  with  drink,  with  drink! 

Or  if  thy  mistress  proves  unworthy  to  thee, 
Ne'er  pine,  ne'er  pine  at  the  wanton  pug! 

But  choose  out  a  fairer  and  kinder  than  she, 
And  banish  despair  in  a  mug,  a  mug ! 


270          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Then  he  is  an  ass  that  seems  to  despair 
At  any  coy  frown  of  the  wanton  pug; 

Be  merry  and  jolly,  and  drown  all  thy  care 
For  ever  and  aye,  in  a  mug,  a  mug! 

ANONYMOUS.     Early  seventeenth  century. 

( Incomplete. ) 


TOSS  THE  POT,  TOSS  THE  POT,  LET  US 
BE  MERRY 

Toss  the  pot,  toss  the  pot,  let  us  be  merry, 
And  drink  till  our  cheeks  be  as  red  as  a  cherry. 

We  take  no  thought,  we  have  no  care, 
For  still  we  spend  and  never  spare, . 
Till  of  all  money  our  purse  is  bare, 
We  ever  toss  the  pot. 

Chorus — 

Toss  the  pot,  toss  the  pot,  let  us  be  merry, 
And  drink  till  our  cheeks  be  as  red  as  a  cherry. 

We  drink,  carouse  with  heart  most  free, 
A  hearty  draught  I  drink  to  thee : 
Then  fill  the  pot  again  to  me, 
And  ever  toss  the  pot. 

And  when  our  money  is  all  spent, 
Then  sell  our  goods  and  spend  our  rent, 
Or  drink  it  up  with  one  consent, 
And  ever  toss  the  pot. 


OUR  FATHERS  AFORE  US         271 

When  -all  is  gone,  we  have  no  more, 
Then  let  us  set  it  on  the  score, 
Or  chalk  it  up  behind  the  door, 
And  ever  toss  the  pot. 

And  when  our  credit  is  all  lost, 
Then  may  we  go  and  kiss  the  post, 
And  eat  brown  bread  instead  of  roast, 
And  ever  toss  the  pot. 

Let  us  conclude  as  we  began, 
And  toss  the  pot  from  man  to  man, 
And  drink  as  much  now  as  we  can, 
And  ever  toss  the  pot. 

Chorus — 

Toss  the  pot,  toss  the  pot,  let  us  be  merry, 
And  drink  till  our  cheeks  be  as  red  as  a  cherry. 

Old  Song. 

Early  Seventeenth  Century. 


THE  HONEST  FELLOW 

Pho!    Pox  o'  this  nonsense,  I  prithee  give  o'er, 
And  talk  of  your  Phillis  and  Chloe  no  more; 
Their  face,  and  their  air,  and  their  mien,  what  a 

rout! 

Here's  to  thee,  my  lad,  push  the  bottle  about ! 
Here's  to  thee,  my  lad,  push  the  bottle  about ! 

Let  finikin  fops  play  the  fool  and  the  ape; 
They  dare  not  confide  in  the  juice  of  the  grape, 


272         THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

But  we  honest  fellows,  'sdeath,  who'd  ever  think 
Of  puling  for  love,  while  he's  able  to  drink, 
Of  puling  for  love,  while  he's  able  to  drink! 

Tis  wine,  only  wine,  that  true  pleasure  bestows, 
Our  joys  it  increases  and  lightens  oar  woes; 
Remember  what  topers  of  old  used  to  sing, 
The  man  that  is  drunk  is  as  great    as  a  king, — 
The  man  that  is  drunk  is  as  great  as  a  king! 

If  Cupid  assaults  you,  there's  law  for  his  tricks, 
Anacreon's  cases,  see  page  twenty-six; 
The  precedent's  glorious,  and  just  by  my  soul, 
Lay  hold  on,  and  drown  the  young  dog  in  a  bowl — 
Lay  hold  on,  and  drown  the  young  dog  in  a  bowl ! 

What's  life  but  a  frolic,  a  song,  and  a  laugh? 
My  toast  shall  be  this  while  I've  liquor  to  quaff : 
May  mirth  and  goodfellowship  always  abound  ! — 
Boys,  fill  up  a  Bumper  and  let  it  go  round, 
Boys,  fill  up  a  Bumper  and  let  it  go  round! 

Early  Eighteenth  Century. 
This  reading  from  "The  Canary  Bird." 


DOWN  AMONG  THE  DEAD  MEN 

Here's  a  health  to  the  King  and  a  lasting  peace, 
To  faction  an  end,  to  wealth  increase; 
Come,  let's  drink  it  while  we  have  breath, 
For  there's  no  drinking  after  death. 
And  he  that  will  this  health  deny, 
Down  among  the  dead  men  let  him  lie. 


OUR  FATHERS  AFORE  US         273 

Let  charming  beauty's  health  go  round, 
In  whom  celestial  joys  are  found, 
And  may  confusion  still  pursue 
The  senseless  women-hating  crew; 
And  they  that  women's  health  deny, 
Down  among  the  dead  men  let  them  lie. 

In  smiling  Bacchus'  joys  I'll  roll, 

Deny  no  pleasure  to  my  soul; 

Let  Bacchus'  health  round  briskly  move, 

For  Bacchus  is  a  friend  to  love, 

And  he  that  will  this  health  deny, 

Down  among  the  dead  men  let  him  lie. 

May  love  and  wine  their  rites  maintain, 
And  their  united  pleasures  reign; 
While  Bacchus'  treasure  crowns  the  board, 
We'll  sing  the  joys  that  both  afford; 
And  the}'  that  won't  with  us  comply, 
Down  among  the  dead  men  let  them  lie. 

Old  Song. 
Early  Eighteenth  Century. 


SONG 

He  that  will  not  merry  merry  be 

With  a  generous  bowl  and  a  toast, 
May  he  in  Bridewell  be  shut  up, 
And  fast  bound  to  a  post, 
Let  him  be  merry  merry  there, 
And  we'll  be  merry  merry  here, 
For  who  can  know  where  we  shall  go 
To  be  merry  another  year? 


274         THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

He  that  will  not  merry  merry  be, 

And  take  his  glass  in  course, 
May  he  be  obliged  to  drink  small  beer 

With  ne'er  a  groat  in  his  purse: 
Let  him,  etc  ... 

He  that  will  not  merry  merry  be 

With  a  company  of  jolly  boys 
May  he  be  plagued  with  a  scolding  wife 

To  confound  him  with  her  noise. 
Let  him,  etc.  .  .  . 

He  that  will  not  merry  merry  be 

With  his  mistress  in  his  bed, 
Let  him  be  buried  in  the  churchyard 
And  me  put  in  his  stead: 

Let  him  be  merry,  etc.  .  .  . 
Early  Eighteenth  Century  or  Late  Seventeenth. 

This  Reading  from  Ramsay's  "Tea  Table  Mis- 
cellany." 


0  grant  me,  kind  Bacchus, 

The  God  of  the  Vine, 
Not  a  pipe  nor  a  tun, 

But  an  ocean  of  wine, 
With  a  ship  that's  well  manned 

With  such  rare-hearted  fellows, 
Who  ne'er  left  the  tavern 

For  a  porterly  alehouse. 


OUR  FATHERS  AFORE  US        275 

ii 

Let  the  ship  spring  a  leak, 

To  let  in  the  tipple, 
Without  pump  or  logboat 

To  save  ship  or  people: 
So  that  each  jolly  lad 

May  always  be  bound, 
Or  to  drink,  or  to  drink, 

Or  to  drink,  or  be  drowned. 

in 

When  death  does  prevail, 

It  is  my  design 
To  be  nobly  entombed 

In  a  wave  of  good  wine: 
So  that  living  or  dead, 

Both  body  and  spirit, 

May  float  round  the  world 

In  an  ocean  of  claret. 

Early  Eighteenth  Century. 

This  Beading  from  Ramsay's  ""Tea  Table  Mis- 
cellany." 


CARE  DROWNED 

Care !  thou  canker  of  our  joys, 
Now  thy  tyrant  reign  is  o'er! 

Fill  the  merry  bowl,  ray  boys! 
Join  in  bacchanalian  roar! 


276          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Seize  the  villain !  plunge  him  in ! 

See,  the  hated  miscreant  dies! 
Mirth  and  all  thy  train,  come  in! 

Banish  Sorrow,  Tears,  and  Sighs! 

O'er  the  flowing  midnight  bowls, 
Oh,  how  happy  we  shall  be ! 

Day  was  made  for  vulgar  souls; 
Night,  my  boys,  for  you  and  me ! 

WILLIAM  GRANT. 


Who  dares  talk  of  hours?     Seize  the  bell  of  that 

clock ! 

Seize  his  hammer  and  cut  off  his  hands ! 
To  the  bottle,  dear  bottle!     I'll  stick  like  a  rock; 
And  obey  only  Pleasure's  commands! 

Let  him  strike  the  short  hours,  and  hint  at  a  bed! 
Waiter,  bring  us  more  wine !     What  a  whim ! 
Say,  "That  Time,  his  old  master,  for  Topers  was 

made ;  * 

And  not  jolly  Topers  for  him !" 

JOHN  WOLCOT. 


THE  DOCTOR'S  OWN 

"Hermit  hoar,  in  solemn  cell, 
Wearing  out  life's  evening  gray, 

Smite  thy  bosom,  sage,  and  tell, 
What  is  bliss,  and  which  the  way  ?" 


OUR  FATHERS  AFORE  US        277 

Thus  I  spoke ;  and  speaking  sighed, 
Scarce   repressed   the   stalling  tear; 

When  the  smiling  sage  replied — 

"Come,  my  lad,  and  drink  some  beer." 
DR.  SAM.  JOHNSON. 


What  are  misses,  the  muses,  to  nine  mouldy  casks? 
Or  the  tea-table's  splendour  to  splendid  full  flasks? 
What  is  Pegasus  good  for?  Yes,  he  shall  be  mine, 
I'll  keep  him  as  porter  to  fly  for  my  wine. 

Sing  tantarrara. 

In   daisy-decked   meads,   when   the   birds   whistle 

round, 

How  shrill  is  their  music,  how  simple  the  sound ! 
Give  me  the  bell's  tinkle,  a  fat  landlord's  roar, 
And    a    good    fellow's    order — "Boy,    six    bottles 

more." 

Sing  tantarrara. 

Can  music  or  verse,  love  or  landscape  bestow 

A  six-bottle  sound,  or  a  six-bottle  show? 

Could  I  meet  them  at  midnight,  their  bottoms  I'd 

try, 

Who  first  should  give  out,  Faith,  the  bottles  or  I. 

Sing  tantarrara. 

This  tuning  and  piping,  no  longer  I'll  bear  it, 
What's  all  pipes  of  music  to  one  pipe  of  claret? 
By  my  soul,  bucks,  I  love  it,  and  why,  would  you 
Drink  only  as  I've  done,  you'd  all  love  it  too. 

Sing  tantarrara. 
GEORGE  ALEXANDER  STEPHENS. 

("The  Humours  of  tondon.") 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE 


We  were  sitting  at  chess  as  the  sun  went  down; 
And  he,  from  his  meerschaum's  glossy  brown f 
With  a  ring  of  smoke  made  his  king  a  crown. 

The  cherry  stem,  with  its  amber  tip, 

Thoughtfully  rested  on  his  lip, 

As  the  goblet's  rim  from  which  heroes  sip. 

And,  looking  out  through  the  early  green 
He  called  on  his  patron  saint,  I  ween, — 
That  misty  maiden,  Saint  Nicotine. 

SAMUEL  W.  DUPFIELD. 

(From  "Smoke  and  Chess.") 


ODE  TO  TOBACCO 

Thou  who,  when  fears  attack, 
Bidst  them  avaunt,  and  Black 
Care,  at  the  horseman's  back 

Perching,  unseatest ; 
Sweet  when  the  morn  is  gray; 
Sweet  when  they've  cleared  away 
Lunch;  and  at  close  of  day 

Possibly  sweetest: 

I  have  a  liking  old 

For  thee,  though  manifold 

Stories,  I  know,  are  told, 

Not  to  thy  credit ; 
How  one  (or  two  at  most) 
Drops  make  a  cat  a  ghost — 
Useless,  except  to  roast — 

Doctors  have  said  it: 

How  they  who  use  fusees 
All  grow  by  slow  degrees 
Brainless  as  chimpanzees, 

Meagre  as  lizards; 
Go  mad,  and  beat  their  wives; 
Plunge  (after  shocking  lives) 
Razors  and  carving  knives 

Into  their  gizzards. 
281 


282          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Confound  such  knavish  tricks! 
Yet  know  I  five  or  six 
Smokers  who  freely  mix 

Still  with  their  neighbours; 
Jones — (who,  I'm  glad  to  say, 
Asked  leave  of  Mrs.  J.) — 
Daily  absorbs  a  clay 

After  his  labours. 

Cats  may  have  had  their  goose 
Cooked  by  tobacco- juice; 
Still  why  deny  its  use 

Thoughtfully  taken? 
We're  not  as  tabbies  are: 
Smith,  take  a  fresh  cigar! 
Jones,  the  tobacco-jar! 

Here's  to  thee,  Bacon ! 

C.  S.  CALVERLEY. 


"AND  LIFE  IS  LIKE  A  PIPE" 

And  life  is  like  a  pipe, 

And  love  is  the  fusee; 
The  pipe  draws  well,  but  bar  the  light, 

And  what's  the  use  to  me? 

So  light  it  up,  and  puff  away 

An  empty  morning  through, 
And  when  it's  out — why  love  is  out, 

And  life's  as  well  out  too ! 

THEO.  MARZIALS. 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  283 


MY  LAST  CIGAR 

The  mighty  Thebes  and  Babylon  the  great, 
Imperial  Rome,  in  turn,  have  bowed  to  fate; 
So  this  great  world  and  each  particular  star 
Must  all  burn  out,  like  you,  my  last  cigar; 
A  puff — a  transient  fire,  that  ends  in  smoke, 
And  all  that's  given  to  man — that  bitter  joke — 
Youth,  Hope,  and  Love,  three  whiffs  of  passing 

zest, 
Then  come  the  ashes,  and  the  long,  long  rest. 

HENRY  JAMES  MELLER. 


THE  BETROTHED 
"You  must  choose  between  me  and  your  cigar." 

Open  the  old  cigar-box,  get  me  a  Cuba  stout, 
For  things  are  running  cross-ways,  and  Maggie 
and  I  are  out. 

We  quarrelled  about  Havanas — we  fought  o'er  a 

good  cheroot, 
And  I  know  she  is  exacting,  and  she  says  I  am  a 

brute. 

Open  the  old  cigar-box — let  me  consider  a  space; 
In  the  soft  blue  veil  of  the  vapour,  musing  on 
Maggie's  face. 


284          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Maggie  is  pretty  to  look  at — Maggie's  a  loving  lass. 
But  the  prettiest  cheeks  must  wrinkle,  the  truest 
of  loves  must  pass. 

There's  peace  in  a  Laranaga,  there's  calm  in  a 

Henry  Clay, 
But  the  best  cigar  in  an  hour  is  finished  and  thrown 

away — 

Thrown  away  for  another  as  perfect  and  ripe  and 

brown — 
But  I  could  not  throw  away  Maggie  for  fear  o'  the 

talk  o'  the  town! 

Maggie,  my  wife  at  fifty — grey  and  dour  and  old — 
With  never  another  Maggie  to  purchase  for  love  or 
gold! 

And  the  light  of  Days  that  have  Been,  the  dark  of 

the  Days  that  Are, 
And  Love's  torch  stinking  and  stale,  like  the  butt 

of  a  dead  cigar — 

The  butt  of  a  dead  cigar  you  are  bound  to  keep 

in  your  pocket — 
With  never  a  new  one  to  light  tho'  it's  charred  and 

black  to  the  socket. 

Open  the  old  cigar-box — let  me  consider  awhile — 
Here  is  a  mild  Manila — there  is  a  wifely  smile 

Which  is  the  better  portion — bondage  bought  with 

a  ring, 
Or  a  harem  of  dusky  beauties  fifty  tied  in  a  string? 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  285 

Counsellors   cunning   and   silent — comforters  true 

and  tried, 
And  never  a  one  of  the  fifty  to  sneer  at  a  rival 

bride. 

Thought  in  the  early  morning,  solace  in  time  of 

woes, 
Peace  in  the  hush  of  the  twilight,  balm  ere  my 

eyelids  close. 

This  will  the  fifty  give  me,  asking  nought  in  re- 
turn, 

With  only  a  Suttee's  passion — to  do  their  duty 
and  burn. 

This  will  the  fifty  give  me.  When  they  are  spent 
and  dead, 

Five  times  other  fifties  shall  be  my  servants  in- 
stead. 

The  furrows  of  far-off  Java,  the  isles  of  the  Span- 
ish Main, 

When  they  hear  my  harem  is  empty,  will  send  me 
my  brides  again. 

I  will  take  no  heed  to  their  raiment,  nor  food  for 

their  mouths  withal, 
So  long  as  the  gulls  are  nesting,  so  long  as  the 

showers  fall. 

I  will  scent  'em  with  best  vanilla,  with  tea  will  I 

temper  their  hides, 
And  the  Moor  and  the  Mormon  shall  envy  who  read 

of  the  tale  of  my  brides. 


286          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

For  Maggie  has  written  a  letter  to  give  me  my 

choice  between 
The  wee  little  whimpering  Love  and  the  great  god 

Nick  o'  Teen. 

And  I  have  been  servant  of  Love  for  barely  a 

twelvemonth  clear, 
But  I  have  been  Priest  of  Partagas  a  matter  of 

seven  year; 

And  the  gloom  of  my  bachelor  days  is  flecked  with 
the  cheery  light 

Of  stumps  that. I  burned  in  Friendship  and  Pleas- 
ure and  Work  and  Fight. 

And  I  turn  my  eyes  to  the  future  that  Maggie  and 

I  must  prove, 
But  the  only  light  on  the  marshes  is  the  Will-o'- 

the-Wisp  of  Love. 

Will  it  see  me  safe  through  my  journey,  or  leave 

me  bogged  in  a  mire? 
Since  a  puff  of  tobacco  can  cloud  it,  shall  I  follow 

the  fitful  fire? 

Open  the  old  cigar-box — let  me  consider  anew — 
Old   friends,  and  who  is  Maggie,  that   I  should 
abandon  you? 

A  million  surplus  Maggies  are  willing  to  bear  the 

yoke: 
And  a  woman  is  only  a  woman,  but  a  good  cigar  is 

a  Smoke. 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  287 

Light  me  another  Cuba;  I  hold  to  my  first-sworu 

vows, 
If  Maggie  will  have  no  rival,  I'll  have  no  Maggie 

for  spouse! 

RUDYARD  KIPLING. 


Virginia  for  the  pipe's  sweet  charity, 
Havana  for  cigars  to  solace  me; 
And  Turkey  for  the  transient  cigarette — 
Was  all  I  learned  of  my  geography. 

Peace  to  the  pipe,  that  silent  infidel, 
Whose  spiral  twisted  coils  discretion  spell ! 
How  many  kisses  has  he  seen  me  give, 
How  many  take — and  yet  he  will  not  tell. 

WALLACE  IRWIN. 


Scorn  not  the  meerschaum.    Housewives,  you  have 

croaked 
In  ignorance  of  its  charms.     Through  this  small 

reed 

Did  Milton,  now  and  then,  consume  the  weed ; 
The  poet  Tennyson  hath  oft  evoked 


288          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

The  Muse  with  glowing  pipe,  and  Thackeray  joked 

And  wrote  and  sang  in  nieotinian  mood ; 

Hawthorne  with  this  hath  cheered  his  solitude; 
A  thousand  times  this  pipe  hath  Lowell  smoked; 
Full  oft  hath  Aldrich,  Stoddard,  Taylor,  Cranch, 

And  many  more  whose  verses  float  about, 
Puffed  the  Virginian  or  Havana  leaf; 
And  when  the  poet's  or  the  artist's  branch, 

Drops  no  sustaining  fruit,  how  sweet  to  pout 
Consolatory  whiffs,  alas,  too  brief ! 


IN  PRAISE  OF  TOBACCO 

To  feed  on  flesh  is  gluttony, 
It  maketh  men  fat  like  swine; 

But  is  not  he  a  frugal  man 
That  on  a  leaf  can  dine? 

He  needs  no  linnen  for  to  foul 

His  fingers'  ends  to  wipe, 
That  has  his  kitchen  in  a  box, 

And  roast  meat  in  a  pipe. 

The  cause  wherefore  few  rich  men's  sons 

Prove  disputants  in  schools, 
Is  that  their  fathers  fed  on  flesh. 

And  they  begat  fat  fools. 

This  fulsome  feeding  cloggs  the  brain 

And  doth  the  stomach  choak, 
But  he's  a  brave  spark  that  can  dine 

With  one  light  dish  of  smoak. 

SAMUEL,  ROWLANDS. 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  289 


MY  AFTER-DINNER  CLOUD 

Some  sombre  evening,  when  I  sit 
And  feed  in  solitude  at  home, 

Perchance  an  ultra-bilious  fit- 
Paints  all  the  world  an  orange  chrome. 

When  Fear,  and  Care,  and  grim  Despair 
Flock  round  me  in  a  ghostly  crowd, 

One  charm  dispels  them  all  in  air: — 
I  blow  my  after-dinner  cloud. 

'Tis  melancholy  to  devour 

The  gentle  chop  in  loneliness; 

I  look  on  six — my  prandial  hour — 
-  With  dread  not  easy  to  express. 

And  yet,  for  every  penance  done, 
Due  compensation  seems  allow'd, 

My  penance  o'er,  its  price  is  won : — 
I  blow  my  after-dinner  cloud. 

My  clay  is  not  a  Henry  Clay — 

I  like  it  better,  on  the  whole; 
And  when  I  fill  it,  I  can  say 

I  drown  my  sorrows  in  the  bowl. 
For  most  I  love  my  lowly  pipe 

When  weary,  sad,  and  leaden-brow'd : 
At  such  a  time  behold  me  ripe 

To  blow  my  after-dinner  cloud. 

As  gracefully  the  smoke  ascends 
In  columns  from  the  weed  beneath, 

My  friendly  -wizard,  Fancy  lends 
A  vivid  shape  to  every  wreath. 


290          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Strange  memories  of  life  or  death, 
Up  from  the  cradle  to  the  shroud, 

Come  forth  as,  with  enchanter's  breath, 
I  blow  my  after-dinner  cloud. 

What  wonder  if  it  stills  my  care 

To  quit  the  present  for  the  past; 
And  summon  back  the  things  that  were, 

Which  only  thus  in  vapour  last? 
What  wonder  if  I  envy  not 

The  rich,  the  giddy,  and  the  proud, 
Contented  in  this  quiet  spot 

To  blow  my  after-dinner  cloud? 

HENRY  S.  LEIGH. 


A  TOAST  TO  TOBACCO  SMOKE 

A  Toast — a  Health,  since  here  we  are : 
The  glory  of  a  sound  cigar! 
Another,  now  that  here  we're  met : 
The  solace  of  a  cigarette ! 
A  third,  since  now  the  time  is  ripe : 
The  puffing  of  a  fragrant  pipe! 
And,  lastly,  let  this  be  bespoke: 
The  joys  of  good  tobacco  smoke! 

WALLACE  RICE. 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  291 

MY  THREE  LOVES 

When  Life  was  all  a  summer  day, 

And  I  was  under  twenty, 
Three  loves  were  scattered  in  my  way — 

And  three  at  once  are  plenty. 
Three  hearts,  if  offered  with  a  grace, 

One  thinks  not  of  refusing, 
The  task  in  this  especial  case 

Was  only  that  of  choosing : 

I  knew  not  which  to  make  my  pet — 
My  pipe,  cigar,  or  cigarette. 

To  cheer  my  night  or  glad  my  day 

My  pipe  was  ever  willing; 
The  meerschaum  or  the  lowly  clay 

Alike  repaid  the  filling. 
Grown  men  delight  in  blowing  clouds, 

As  boys  in  blowing  bubbles, 
Our  cares  to  puff  away  in  crowds, 

And  banish  all  our  troubles. 
My  pipe  I  nearly  made  my  pet, 
Above  cigar  or  cigarette. 

A  tiny  paper,  tightly  rolled 

About  some  Latakia, 
Contains  within  its  magic  fold 

A  mighty  panacea. 
Some  thought  of  sorrow  or  of  strife 

At  ev'ry  whiff  will  vanish ; 
And  all  the  scenery  of  life 

Turn  picturesquely  Spanish. 
But  still  I  could  not  quite  forget 
Cigar  and  pipe  for  cigarette. 


292          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

To  yield  an  after-dinner  puff 

O'er  demi-tasse  and  brandy, 
No  cigarettes  are  strong  enough, 

No  pipes  are  ever  handy. 
However  fine  may  be  the  feed, 

It  only  moves  my  laughter 
Unless  a  dry  delicious  weed 

Appears  a  little  after. 
A  prime  cigar  I  firmly  set 
Above  a  pipe  or  cigarette. 

But,  after  all,  I  try  in  vain 

To  fetter  my  opinion ; 
Since  each  upon  my  giddy  brain 

Has  boasted  a  dominion. 
Comparisons  I'll  not  provoke, 
Lest  all  should  be  offended. 
Let  this  discussion  end  in  smoke, 
As  many  more  have  ended. 

And  each  I'll  make  a  special  pet; 
My  pipe,  cigar,  and  cigarette. 

HENRY  S.  LEIGH. 


OLD  RALPH  RANSOME'S  HONEYDEW. 

Old  Ralph  Ransom  sailed  the  sea — 
Sailed  the  whole  vast  ocean  through — 

And  returning  brought  to  me 
These  rare  cakes  of  Honeydew. 

Blessings  on  old  Raleigh's  head — 
Though  upon  the  block  it  fell — 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  293 

For  the  knowledge  he  first  spread 
Of  the  herb  I  love  so  well ! 
'Tis  a  talisman  defies 

All  that  care  and  want  can  do 
There  are  few  things  that  I  prize 
Like  Ralph  Ransome's  Honeydew! 

Tell  me  not  of  lotos-plants — 

How  the  lotos-eaters  lay 
Lazily  in  shady  haunts 

Dreaming  all  their  time  away! 
There's  a  drowsier  charm  in  this 

Than  in  lotos; — if,  indeed, 
That  same  plant  aught  other  is 
Than  the  soothing  Indian  weed : — 
Were  it  not,  in  truth  then  if 

I  were  of  Ulysses'  crew, 
I'd  far  rather  have  a  whiff 

Of  Ralph  Ransome's  Honeydew! 

Peace  to  old  Ralph  Ransome's  bones 

Wheresoever  they  are  lain, 
In  some  island  of  the  zones, 

In  the  distant  Spanish  main. 
This  Nepenthe  which  he  brought, 
Only  careful  memories  ends — 
Does  not  drown  one  kindly  thought 
Of  my  rarest  of  old  friends. 
As  I  muse  thus,  lapt  in  bliss, 

Upwards  floats  the  vapour  blue — 
The  apotheosis  this 
Of  Ralph  Ransome's  Honeydew! 

(Incomplete.) 


294          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


ON  A  TOBACCO  JAR 

Three  hundred  years  ago  or  soe, 

One  worthy  knight  and  gentlemanne 
Did  bring  me  here,  to  charm  and  chere 

The  physical  and  mental  manne. 
God  bless  his  soule  who  filled  ye  bowle, 

And  may  our  blessings  find  him; 
That  he  not  miss  some  share  of  blisse 

Who  left  soe  much  behind  him. 

BERNARD  BARKER. 


Tobacco,  some  say,  is  a  potent  narcotic 

That  rules  half  the  world  in  a  way  quite  despotic; 

So  to  punish  him  well  for  his  wicked  and  merry 
tricks 

We'll  burn  him  forthwith  as  they  used  to  do  here- 
tics. 

ANONYMOUS. 


WITH  PIPE  AND  BOOK 

With  Pipe  and  Book  at  close  of  day, 
Oh,  what  is  sweeter,  mortal,  say? 
It  matters  not  what  book  on  knee, 
Old  Izaak  or  the  Odyssey, 
It  matters  not  meerschaum  or  clay. 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  295 

And  though  one's  eyes  will  dream  astray, 
And  lips  forget  to  sue  or  sway, 
It  is  "enough  to  merely  be," 

With  Pipe  and  Book. 


What  though  our  modern  skies  be  gray, 
As  bards  aver,  I  will  not  pray 
For  "soothing  Death"  to  succour  me, 
But  ask  this  much,  0  Fate,  of  thee, 
A  little  longer  yet  to  stay 

With  Pipe  and  Book. 

RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE. 


A  BALLADE  OF  THE  BEST  PIPE 

I  hear  you  fervently  extol 

The  virtues  of  your  ancient  clay, 

As  black  as  any  piece  of  coal, 

To  me  it  smells  of  rank  decay 

And  bones  of  people  passed  away, — 
A  smell  I  never  could  admire. 
With  all  respect  to  you  I  say, 

Give  me  a  finely  seasoned  briar. 

Poor  Jones,  whose  judgment  as  a  whole 

Is  faultless,  has  been  led  astray 
To  nurse  a  costly  meerschaum  bowl. 
Well,  let  him  nurse  it  as  he  may, 


296          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

I  hardly  think  he'll  find  it  pay. 
Before  the  colour  gets  much  higher, 
He'll  drop  it  on  the  grate  some  day. 

Give  me  a  finely  seasoned  briar. 

The  heathen  Turk  of  Istamboul, 

In  Oriental  turban  gay, 
Delights  his  unregenerate  soul 
With  hookahs,  bubbling  in  a  way 
To  till  a  Christian  with  dismaj', 

And  wake  the  old  Crusading  fire. 

May  no  such  pipe  be  mine  I  pray! 
Give  me  a  finely  seasoned  briar. 

ENVOY 

Clay,  meerschaum,  hookah,  what  are  they 
That  I  should  view  them  with  desire? 

I'll  sing,  till  all  my  hair  is  grey, 
Give  me  a  finely  seasoned  briar. 

E.  F.  MURRAY. 


OLD  PIPE  OF  MINE 

Ah !  you  have  been  a  travelled  pipe ; 

But  now,  of  course,  you're  getting  stale, 
Just  like  myself,  and  rather  ripe ; 

You've  had  your  fill  of  cakes  and  ale, 
And  half-forgotten  memories,  too. 

And  all  the  pensive  thoughts  that  twine 
Around  a  past  that,  entre  nous, 

Has  pleasant  been,  old  pipe  of  mine. 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  297 

Old  pipe  of  mine,  for  many  a  year 

What  boon  companions  we  have  been  1 
With  here  a  smile  and  there  a  tear, 

How  many  changes  we  have  seen! 
How  many  hearts  have  ceased  to  beat, 

How  many  eyes  have  ceased  to  shine, 
How  many  friends  will  never  meet, 

Since  first  we  met,  old  pipe  of  mine! 


Though  here  and  there  the  road  was  deep, 

And  now  and  then  the  rain  would  fall; 
We  managed  every  time  to  keep 

A  "sturdy  forehead  to  them  all! 
And  even  when  she  left  my  side, 

We  didn't  wait  to  fret  or  pine, 
Oh,  no;  we  said  the  world  was  wide, 

And  luck  would  turn,  old  pipe  of  mine! 


And  it  has  turned  since  you  and  I 

Set  out  to  face  the  world  alone; 
And,  in  a  garret  near  the  sky, 

Had  scarce  a  crust  to  call  our  own, 
But  many  a  banquet,  Barmecide; 

And  many  a  dream  of  hope  divine, 
Lie  buried  in  the  moaning  tide, 

That  drowns  the  past,  old  pipe  of  mine! 

But  prosing  isn't  quite  the  thing, 
And  so,  I  guess,  I'll  give  it  up : 

Just  wait  a  moment  while  I  sing; 
We'll  have  another  parting  cup, 


298          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

And  then  to  bed.     The  stars  are  low; 

Yon  sickly  moon  has  ceased  to  shine; 
So  here  she  goes,  and  off  we  go, 

To  Slumberland,  old  pipe  of  mine! 

JOHN  J.  GORMLEY. 

( Incomplete. ) 


Mortals  say  their  hearts  are  light 
When  the  clouds  around  disperse; 

Clouds  to  gather  thick  as  night, 
Is  the  Smoker's  universe. 

From  the  German  of  BAUERNFELD. 


MY  MEERSCHAUMS 

Long  pipes  and  short  ones,  straight  and  curved, 
High  carved  and  plain,  dark-hued  and  creamy, 

Slim  tubes  for  cigarettes  reserved, 
And  stout  ones  for  Havanas  dreamy. 

This  cricket,  on  an  amber  spear 
Impaled,  recalls  that  golden  weather 

When  love  and  I,  too  young  to  fear 
Heartburn,  smoked  cigarettes  together. 

And  even  now — too  old  to  take 

The  little  papered  shams  for  flavour — 

I  light  it  oft  for  her  sweet  sake 
Who  gave  it,  with  her  girlish  favour. 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  299 

And  here's  the  mighty  student  bowl 
Whose  tutoring-  in  and  after  college 

Has  led  me  nearer  wisdom's  goal 
Than  all  I  learned  of  text-book  knowledge. 

"It  taught  me?"    Ay,  to  hold  my  tongue, 
To  keep  a-light,  and  yet  burn  slowly, 

To  break  ill  spells  around  me  flung 
As  with  the  enchanted  whiff  of  Moly. 

This  nargileh,  whose  hue  betrays 

Perique  from  soft  Louisiana, 
In  Egypt  once  beguiled  the  days 

Of  Tewfik's  dreamy-eyed  Sultana. 

Speaking  of  colour, — do  you  know 
A  maid  with  eyes  as  darkly  splendid 

As  are  the  hues  that,  rich  and  slow, 
On  this  Hungarian  bowl  have  blended? 

Can  artist  paint  the  fiery  glints 

Of  this  quaint  finger  here  beside  it, 
With  amber  nail, — the  lustrous  tints, 

A  thousand  Partagas  have  dyed  it  ? 

"And  this  old  silver  patched  affair?" 

Well,  sir,  that  meerschaum  has  its  reasons 

For  showing  marks  of  time  and  wear; 
For  in  its  smoke  through  fifty  seasons 

My  grandsire  blew  his  cares  away! 

And  then,  when  done  with  life's  sojourning, 
At  seventy-five  dropped  dead  one  day, 

That  pipe  between  his  set  teeth  burning! 


300          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

"Killed  him  !"    No  doubt !  it's  apt  to  kill 

In  fifty  years'  incessant  using — 
Some  twenty  pipes  a  day.     And  still, 

On  that  ripe,  well-filled,  lifetime  musing, 

I  envy  oft  so  bright  a  part, — 

To  live  as  long  as  life's  a  treasure; 
To  die  of — not  an  aching  heart, 

But — half  a  century  of  pleasure ! 

Well,  well !     I'm  boring  you,  no  doubt ; 

How  these  old  memories  will  undo  one — 
I  see  you've  let  your  weed  go  out ; 

That's  wrong!     Here,  light  yourself  a  new  one! 
CHARLES  F.  LUMMIS. 


FIDUS  ACHATES 

Where  is  my  trusty  old  clay, 

The  pipe  I  have  puffed  for  years? 
Broken  and  passed  away ! 

Puffed  it  when  laughing  and  gay, 
Puffed  it  when  plunged  in  tears, 
Where  is  my  trusty  old  clay? 

My  solace  by  night  and  by  day, 

Like  magic  it  scattered  my  fears — 
Broken  and  passed  away! 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  301 

'Twas  black  as  the  jettiest  jay, 

'Twas  soft  as  the  murmur  of  meres — 
Where  is  my  trusty  old  clay? 


This  is  all  that  my  tongue  can  say, 

This  is  all  that  my  sad  soul  hears — 
Broken  and  passed  away! 

Here's  the  end  of  all  pleasure  and  play, 

Man's   epitaph  here  appears: 
Where  is  my  trusty  old  clay? 
Broken  and  passed  away! 

W.  A.  MACKENZIE. 


A  CATCH  ON  TOBACCO 

Good,  good  indeed; 
The  herb's  good  weed; 
Fill  thy  pipe,  Will. 
And  I  prithee,  Sam,  fill, 
And  yet  sing  still, 
And  yet  sing  still, 
What  say  the  learn'df 
What  say  the  learn'd? 
Vita  fumus,  vita  fumus! 

'Tis  what  you  and  I, 
And  he  and  I, 
You,  and  he,  and  I, 

And  all  of  us  sumus. 


302          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

But  then  to  the  learned  say  we  again, 
If  life's  a  smoke,  as  they  maintain; 
If  life's  a  vapour  without  doubt, 
When  a  man  does  die, 
He  should  not  cry, 

That  his  glass  is  run,  but  his  pipe  is  out. 
But  whether  we  smoke  or  whether  we  sing, 
Let  us  be  loyal  and  remember  the  King, 
Let  him  live,  and  let  his  foes  vanish  thus,  thus, 

thus, 

Like,  like  a  pipe,  like  a  pipe  of  Spanish,  thus, 
thus,  thus, 

A  pipe  of  Spanish! 

Old  Song. 


FROM  "THE  ISLAND" 

Sublime  Tobacco!  which  from  east  to  west 

Cheers  the  tar's  labour  or  the  Turkman's  rest; 

Which  on  the  Moslem's  ottoman  divides 

His  hours,  and  rivals  opium  and  his  brides; 

Magnificent  in  Stamboul,  but  less  grand, 

Though  not  less  loved,  in  Wapping  or  the  Strand ; 

Divine  in  hookers,  glorious  in  a  pipe, 

When  tipp'd  with  amber,  yellow,  rich,  and  ripe; 

Like  other  charmers,  wooing  the  caress 

More  dazzlingly  when  daring  in  full  dress; 

Yet  thy  true  lovers  more  admire  by  far 

Thy  naked  beauties — Give  me  a  cigar! 

LORD  BYRON. 

(Incomplete.) 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  303 


A  PIPE  OF  TOBACCO 

The  wind  is  loud  this  bleak  December  night, 
And  moans,  like  one  forlorn,  at  door  and  pane; 

But  here  within  my  chamber  warm  and  bright, 
All  household  blessings  reign. 

And  as  I  sit  and  smoke,  my  eager  soul 

Somewhat  at  times  from  out  the  Past  will  win, 

Whilst  the  light  cloud  wreathes  upwards  from  the 

bowl, 
That  glows  so  red  within. 

And  of  the  Protean  shapes  that  curling  rise, 
Fancy,  godlike,  so  moulds  and  fashions  each, 

That  dead  hands  live  again,  and  kindly  eyes, 
And  even  dear  human  speech.  .  .  . 

And  as  the  witching  incense  round  me  climbs, 
I  feel  those  wealthy  summer  eves  once  more. 

When   from   full   hearts  we  read  our  venturous 

rhymes, 
Or  favourite  poet-lore, 

And,  pausing,  saw  the  still  night  drawing  on, 
And  o'er  the  turret-roofs,  serene  and  clear 

Within  their  ordered  spaces,  one  by  one, 
The  solemn  stars  appear. 

So  in  this  odorous  cloud  full  oft  I  see 

Sweet  forms  of  tender  beauty;  and  a  tone. 
Steals  through  the  echoing  halls  of  Memory, 
That  these  are  all  my  own. 

ANONYMOUS. 
(Incomplete.) 


304          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


BREITMANN'S  RAUCHLIED 

Of  all  de  dings  dat  mordal  man, 

Ish  fabrikate  for  gelt, 
Of  all  de  goots  dat  sailen  ships 

Ish  carry  troo  de  welt, 

Peneat  de  Frantsche  tri-colour, 

De  English  Union  Shack, 
Or  Vankeelandish  stripes  und  stars, 

De  pest  ish  good  Taback. 

Vhen  heavenly  smoke  is  roung  mein  nose, 

I  veels  all  Gott-resigned : 
Mit  good  cigars  in  lofely  rows, 

No  care  ish  on  my  mind. 
Id  drills  mein  heart  to  finger  dem 

Vhatefer  pe  deir  brand — 
Vhere'er  I  finds  some  smoke-work — dere 

Ish  Piper's  Vaterland. 

Vot  sort  of  vellers  can  dey  be, 

I  dinks  dir  hets'  ish  crack  ! 
Who  shbeaks  me  of  de  pad  cigars 

Und  good  for  nix  Taback  ? 
Dere's  some  Taback  more  betterer 

As  oder  can  pe  found, 
Boot  pad  Taback  I  nefer  saw 
•     On  all  Gott's  garten  ground. 

Vot  say  der  crate  Winstruphius 
Der  Danish  bard  sooblime: 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  305 

Dat  "Bacchus  and  Tobaccus  oft 
Trown  oud,  dry  oop,  your  time." 

If  rolling  vapour  ofer  het, 
De  face  of  heafen  shrouds, 

Vhy  shouldt  not  mordal  life  trife  on, 
In  wild  Tobacco  clouds? 

Ich  lieb'  den  Wein,  ich  lieb'  das  Bier: 

Das  ist  ganz  wohl  bekannt. 
I  trinks  mein  liddle  Branntewein, 

Vhen  mornings  oop  I  stand; 
Boot  Wein  I'd  lose  and  Bier  resign, 

Ja — Branntewein  I'd  lack, 
Ere  in  dis  world  I'd  smokeless  go, 

Mitout  mein  rauch  Taback. 

So  tyrannus  jubeat 

"Vinum  dato !" — darem. 
"Non  amato  virginem!" 
Hegre  non  amarem, 
"Meerschaum  da,  seu  morere!" 
Pertinax  negarem, 
"Frange  meerschaum — abjice !" 
Fumans  expirarem. 

CHARLES  GODFREY  LELAND. 


306          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


"KEATS  TOOK  SNUFF" 

"Keats  took  snuff.  ...  It  has  been  established  by 
the  praiseworthy  editorial  research  of  Mr.  Burton 
Forman." 

So  "Keats  took  snuff"?    A  few  more  years, 
When  we  are  dead  and  famous — eh? 

Will  they  record  our  pipes  and  beers, 
And  if  we  smoked  cigars  or  clay? 

Or  will  the  world  cry  "Quantum  suff." 

To  tattle  such  as  "Keats  took  snuff"? 

Perhaps  some  chronicler  would  wish 
To  know  what  whisky  we  preferred, 

And  if  we  ever  dined  on  fish, 
Or  only  took  the  joint  and  bird. 

Such  facts  are  quite  as  worthy  stuff, 

Good  chronicler,  as  "Keats  took  snuff." 

You  answer:     "But,  if  you  were  Keats" — 
Tut !  never  mind  your  buts  and  ifs, 

Of  little  men  record  their  meats, 

Their  drinks,  their  troubles,  and  their  tiffs, 

Of  the  great  dead  there's  gold  enough 

To  spare  us  such  as  "Keats  took  snuff." 

Well,  go  your  ways,  you  little  folk, 
Who  polish  up  the  great  folk's  lives; 

Record  the  follies  that  they  spoke, 

And  paint  their  squabbles  with  their  wives. 

Somewhere,  if  ever  ghosts  be  gruff, 

I  trust  some  Keats  will  "give  you  snuff." 

The  Globe. 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  307 


TO  MY  NOSE 

Knows  he  that  never  took  a  pinch, 

Nosey!  the  pleasure  thence  which  flows? 

Knows  he  the  titillating  joy 
Which  my  nose  knows? 

Oh,  nose!    I  am  as  fond  of  thee 

As  any  mountain  of  its  snows! 
I  gaze  on  thee,  and  feel  that  pride 

A  Roman  knows! 

ANONYMOUS. 


A  BALLADE  OF  TOBACCO 

When  verdant  youth  sees  life  afar, 

And  first  sets  out  wild  oats  to  sow, 
He  puffs  a  stiff  and  stark  cigar, 

And  quaffs  champagne  of  Mumm  &  Co. 
He  likes  not  smoking  yet ;  but  though 

Tobacco  makes  him  sick  indeed, 
Cigars  and  wine  he  can't  forego, — 

A  slave  is  each  man  to  the  weed. 

In  time  his  tastes  more  dainty  are 
And  delicate.    Become  a  beau, 

From  out  the  country  of  the  Czar 
He  brings  his  cigarettes,  and  lo! 

He  sips  the  vintage  of  Bordeaux. 
Thus  keener  relish  shall  succeed 


308          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

The  baser  liking  we  outgrow, — 
A  slave  is  each  man  to  the  weed. 

When  age  and  his  own  lucky  star 

To  him  perfected  wisdom  show, 
The  schooner  glides  across  the  bar, 

And  beer  for  him  shall  freely  flow; 
A  pipe  with  genial  warmth  shall  glow, 

To  which  he  turns  in  direct  need, 
To  seek  in  smoke  surcease  of  woe, — 

A  slave  is  each  man  to  the  weed. 

ENVOY 

Smokers,  who  doubt  or  con  or  pro, 
And  ye  who  dare  to  drink,  take  heed! 

And  see  in  smoke  a  friendly  foe, — 
A  slave  is  each  man  to  the  weed. 

BRANDER  MATTHEWS. 


SMOKE 
A  Post-Prandial  Poem 

When  you're  weary,  night  or  day, 
Smoke  a  cheery  yard  of  clay! 
When  I'm  smoking,  jesting,  joking, 
There  is  no  king  half  so  gay. 

Lying  lazy,  far  from  crowds, 
Weaving  hazy  mental  shrouds; 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  309 

Watching  furling  smoke  up  whirling, 
Softly  curling-  to  the  clouds. 

Minds  are  lifted  from  mere  mirth; 
Thoughts  then  sifted  have  more  worth. 
I  am  thinking,  as  the  shrinking 
Sunset,  sinking,  fires  the  earth. 

Thoughts  that  sages  may  have  had, 

In  their  pages,  grave  and  glad : 

Thoughts  thus  seething,  like  smoke  wreathing, 

Sadness  breathing,  make  me  sad. 

Cigar  ended — twilight  broke — 
Night  descended — thus  I  spoke: 
All  that's  jolly,  wisdom,  folly, 
Melancholy,  end  in  smoke. 

BRANDEB  MATTHEWS. 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  TOBACCO  JAR 

Keep  me  at  hand;  and  as  my  fumes  arise, 
You'll  find  a  jar  the  gates  of  Paradise. 

COPE'S  Tobacco  Plant. 


WHAT  I  LIKE 

To  lie  with  half -closed  eyes,  as  in  a  dream, 
Upon  the  grassy  bank  of  some  calm  stream — 

And  smoke. 


310          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

To  climb  with  daring  feet  some  rugged  rock, 
And  sit  aloft  where  gulls  and  curlews  flock- 

And  smoke. 

To  wander  lonely  on  the  ocean's  brink, 
And  of  the  good  old  times  to  muse  and  think- 

And  smoke. 

To  hide  me  in  some  deep  and  woody  glen, 
Far  from  unhealthy  haunts  of  sordid  men — 

And  smoke. 

To  linger  in  some  fairy-haunted  vale 
While  all  about  me  falls  the  moonlight  pale — 

And  smoke. 
ANONYMOUS. 


ODE  TO  MY  CIGAR 

Yes,  social  friend,  I  love  thee  well, 

In  learned  doctors'  spite; 
Thy  clouds  all  other  clouds  dispel, 

And  lap  me  in  delight. 

What  though  they  tell,  with  phizzes  long, 
My  years  are  sooner  passed? 

I  would  reply,  with  reason  strong, 
"They're  sweeter  while  they  last." 

And  oft,  mild  friend,  to  me  thou  art 
A  monitor,  though  still; 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  311 

Thou  speak'st  a  lesson  to  my  heart, 
Beyond  the  preacher's  skill. 


Thou'rt  like  the  man  of  worth  who  gives 

To  goodness  every  day, 
The  odour  of  whose  virtues  lives 

When  he  has  passed  away. 

When  in  the  lonely  evening  hour, 

Attended  but  by  thee, 
O'er  history's  varied  page  I  pore, 

Man's  fate  in  thine  I  see. 

Oft,  as  thy  snowy  column  grows, 
Then  breaks  and  falls  away, 

I  trace  how  mighty  realms  thus  rose, 
Thus  trembled  to  decay. 

Awhile,  like  thee,  earth's  masters  burn, 
And  smoke  and  fume  around, 

And  then  like  thee  to  ashes  turn 
And  mingle  with  the  ground. 

Life's  but  a  leaf  adroitly  rolled, 
And  time's  the  wasting  breath, 

That  late  or  early  we  behold 
Gives  all  to  dusky  death. 

From  beggar's  frieze  to  monarch's  robe 
One  common  doom  is  passed; 

Sweet  nature's  work,  the  swelling  globe, 
Must  all  burn  out  at  last. 


312          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

And  what  is  he  who  smokes  thee  now? 

A  little  moving  heap, 
That  soon  like  thee  to  fate  must  bow, 

With  thee  in  dust  must  sleep. 

But  though  thy  ashes  downward  go, 

Thy  essence  rolls  on  high ; 
Thus,  when  my  body  must  lie  low, 

My  soul  shall  cleave  the  sky. 

CHARLES  SPRAGUE. 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  SMOKE 
"Ex  fumo  dare  lucem." 

The  Meerschaum  white,  or  the  brown  briar-root — 

How  many  phases  of  life  they  suit ! 

Good  luck  or  bad  luck,  glory  or  gloom, 

All  tone  to  one  colour — take  one  perfume, 

If  you've  just  "struck  oil,"  and  with  pride  run 

mad, 

If  you  haven't  a  sou,  and  are  bound  to  the  bad — 
Good  luck  may  vanish,  or  bad  luck  mend: 
Put  each  in  your  pipe  and  smoke  it,  friend ! 

If  you  love  a  Lady  fair  to  view, 
And  she  turns  with  a  cold  contempt  from  you, 
While  at  your  rival  a  smile  she  darts — 
Walking  with  pride  on  a  pathway  of  hearts, 
Wrapt  in  her  softness,  dainty  and  nice, 
Fire  in  her  eyes,  at  her  bosom  ice — 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  313 

In  search  of  returns  precious  time  why  spend  1 
Put  your  love  in  your  pipe  and  smoke  it,  friend! 

If  you  climb  the  ladder  of  politics,  where 

Whoso  ascends  breathes  difficult  air; 

And,  being  highest  of  men  of  the  time, 

Are  slightly  elate  with  your  seat  sublime, 

A  little  apt  at  yourself  to  wonder, 

And  mistake  your  own  bray  for  real  thunder; 

Think  how  rockets  rise  and  how  sticks  descend — 

Put  success  in  your  pipe  and  smoke  it,  friend. 

If  Fame  be  your  football,  any  day 
A  stronger  player  may  kick  it  away. 
Round  you  to-day  lion-hunters  smother; 
Next  week  the  Lion's  skin  goes  to  another. 
From  Popularity's  box-seat  hurled, 
Lie  still  and  see  your  successor  purled. 
A  nine-days'  wonder  nine  days  will  spend : 
So  put  "vogue"  in  your  pipe  and  smoke  it,  friend! 

Punch. 


ON  A  BROKEN  PIPE 

Neglected  now  it  lies,  a  cold  clay  form, 
So  late  with  living  inspirations  wann: 
Type  of  all  other  creatures  formed  of  clay — 
What  more  than  it  for  Epitaph  have  they  ? 

JAMES  THOMSON. 


314          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  TOBACCO  JARS 

Do  you  recall  the  wondrous  brazen  vase, 
Fish'd  up  long  since  in  an  Arabian  nigbt, 

Wlience  rose  a  thick  columnar  smoke,  that  was 
A  fearful  Djinn  of  more  than  mortal  might? 

I  am  akin  to  it. — Within  my  womb, 

Hid  in  the  fragrant  stores  therein  that  be, 

There  dwells  a  kindly  genius,  that,  from  fume, 
Becomes  to  man  embodied — Reverie! 


A  PIPE  OF  TOBACCO 

Let  the  learned  talk  of  books, 

The  glutton  of  cooks, 
The  lover  of  Celia's  soft  smack — 01 

No  mortal  can  boast 

So  noble  a  toast 
As  a  pipe  of  accepted  tobacco! 

Let  the  soldier  for  fame, 

And  a  general's  name, 
In  battle  get  many  a  thwack — 0! 

Let  who  will  have  most, 

Who  will  rule  the  rooste, 
Give  me  but  a  pipe  of  tobacco. 

Tobacco  gives  wit 
To  the  dullest  old  cit, 
And  makes  him  of  politics  crack — 0! 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  315 

The  lawyers  i'  the  hall 
Were  not  able  to  bawl, 
Were  it  not  for  a  whiff  of  tobacco. 

The  man  whose  chief  glory 

Is  telling  a  story, 
Had  never  arrived  at  the  smack — 0 ! 

Between  ever  heying, 

And  as  I  was  saying, 
Did  he  not  take  a  pipe  of  tobacco. 

The  doctor  who  places 

Much  skill  in  grimaces, 
And  feels  your  pulse  running  tic-tack — 0 ! 

Would  you  know  his  chief  skill? 

It  is  only  to  fill 
And  smoke  a  good  pipe  of  tobacco. 

The  courtiers  alone 
To  this  weed  are  not  prone; 
Would  you  know  what  'tis  makes  them  so  slack 

—0! 

'Twas  because  it  inclined 
To  be  honest  the  mind, 
And  therefore  they  banished  tobacco. 

HENRY  FIELDING. 


MAECENAS  BIDS  HIS  FRIEND  TO  DINE 

I  beg  you  come  to-night  and  dine. 

A  welcome  waits  you,  and  sound  wine, — 

The  Roederer  chilly  to  a  charm, 

As  Juno's  breath  the  claret  warm, 


316          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

The  sherry  of  an  ancient  brand. 
No  Persian  pomp,  you  understand, — 
A  soup,  a  fish,  two  meats,  and  then 
A  salad  fit  for  aldermen 
(When  aldermen,  alas  the  days!  x 
Were  really  worth  their  mayonnaise) ; 
A  dish  of  grapes  whose  clusters  won 
Their  bronze  in  Carolinian  sun ; 
Next,  cheese — for  you  the  Neufchatel, 
A  bit  of  Cheshire  likes  me  well; 
Cafe  au  lait  or  coffee  black, 
With  Kirsch  or  Kiimmel  or  cognac 
(The  German  band  in  Irving  Place 
By  this  time  purple  in  the  face)  ; 
Cigars  and  pipes.     These  being  through, 
Friends  shall  drop  in,  a  very  few — 
Shakespeare  and  Milton,  and  no  more. 
When  these  are  guests  I  bolt  the  door, 
With  "Not  at  home"  to  any  one 
Excepting  Alfred  Tennyson. 

ANONYMOUS  ? 


THE  CIGAR 

Some  sigh  for  this  or  that; 

My  wishes  don't  go  far; 
The  world  may  wag  at  will, 

So  I  have  my  cigar. 

Some  fret  themselves  to  death 
With  Whig  and  Tory  jar, 

I  don't  care  which  is  in, 
So  I  have  my  cigar. 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  31? 

Sir  John  requests  my  vote, 

And  so  does  Mr.  Marr; 
I  don't  care  how  it  goes, 

So  I  have  my  cigar. 

Some  want  a  German  row, 

Some  wish  a  Russian  war; 
I  care  not — I'm  at  peace, 

So  I  have  my  cigar. 

I  never  see  the  "Post," 

I  seldom  read  the  "Star"; 
The  "Globe"  I  scarcely  heed, 

So  I  have  my  cigar. 

They  tell  me  that  Bank  Stock 

Is  sunk  much  under  par; 
It's  all  the  same  to  me, 

So  I  have  my  cigar. 

Honours  have  come  to  men 

My  juniors  at  the  Bar; 
No  matter — I  can  wait, 

So  I  have  my  cigar. 

Ambition  frets  me  not, 

A  cab  or  glory's  car 
Are  just  the  same  to  me, 

So  I  have  my  cigar. 

I  worship  no  vain  gods, 

But  serve  the  household  Lar; 

I'm  sure  to  be  at  home, 
So  I  have  my  cigar. 


318          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

I  do  not  seek  for  fame, 

A  general  with  a  scar; 
A  private  let  me  be 

So  I  have  my  cigar. 

To  have  my  choice  among 

The  toys  of  life's  bazaar, 
The  deuce  may  take  them  all 
•  So  I  have  my  cigar. 

Some  minds  are  often  tost 

By  tempests  like  a  tar; 
I  always  seem  in  port, 

So  I  have  my  cigar. 

The  ardent  flame  of  love 

My  bosom  cannot  char, 
I  smoke,  but  do  not  burn, 

So  I  have  my  cigar. 

They  tell  me  Nancy  Low 

Has  married  Mr.  R. ; 
The  jilt!  but  I  can  live, 

So  I  have  my  cigar. 

THOMAS  HOOD. 


MY  CIGARETTE 

My  cigarette!     The  amulet 

That  charms  afar  unrest  and  sorrow, 
The  magic  wand  that,  far  beyond 

To-day,  can  conjure  up  to-morrow. 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  319 

Like  love's  desire,  thy  crown  of  fire 
So  softly  with  the  twilight  blending; 

And  ah,  meseems  a  poet's  dreams 

Are  in  thy  wreaths  of  smoke  ascending. 

My  cigarette !     Can  I  forget 

How  Kate  and  I,  in  sunny  weather, 
Sat  in  the  shade  the  elm-tree  made 

And  rolled  the  fragrant  weed  together? 
I  at  her  side,  beatified 

To  hold  and  guide  her  fingers  willing; 
She  rolling  slow  the  paper's  snow, 

Putting  my  heart  in  with  the  filling. 

My  cigarette!    'I  see  her  yet, 

The  white  smoke  from  her  red  lips  curling, 
Her  dreaming  eyes,  her  soft  replies, 

Her  gentle  sighs,  her  laughter  purling ! 
Ah,  dainty  roll,  whose  parting  soul 

Ebbs  out  in  many  a  snowy  billow, 
I  too  would  burn,  if  I  could  earn 

Upon  her  lips  so  soft  a  pillow. 

Ah,  cigarette!     The  gay  coquette 

Has  long  forgot  the  flame  she  lighted; 
And  you  and  I  unthinking  by 

Alike  are  thrown,  alike  are  slighted. 
The  darkness  gathers  fast  without, 

A  raindrop  on  my  window  plashes; 
My  cigarette  and  heart  are  out, 

And  naught  is  left  me  but  the  ashes. 

CHARLES  F.  LUMMIS. 


320          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


A  BACHELOR'S  INVOCATION 

When  all  my  plans  have  come  to  grief, 

And  every  bill  is  due, 
And  every  faith  that's  worth  belief 

Has  proved  itself  untrue; 
And  when,  as  now,  I've  jilted  been 

By  every  girl  I've  met — 
Ah !  then  I  flee  for  peace  to  thee, 

My  darling  cigarette. 

Hail,  sorceress!  whose  cloudy  spells 

About  my  senses  driven, 
Alone  can  loose  their  prison  cells 

And  waft  my  soul  to  heaven. 
Above  all  earthly  loves,  I  swear, 

I  hold  thee  best — and  yet, 
Would  I  could  see  a  match  for  thee, 

My  darling  cigarette. 

With  lips  unstained  to  thee  I  bring 

A  lover's  gentle  kiss, 
And  woo  thee,  see,  with  this  fair  ring, 

And  this,  and  this,  and  this, — 
But,  ah,  the  rings  no  sooner  cease 

(Inconstant,  vain  coquette!) 
Than,  like  the  rest,  thou  vanishest 

In  smoke,  my  cigarette. 

Pall  Mall  Gazette. 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  321 


A  WINTER  EVENING  HYMN  TO  MY  FIRE 

Nicotia,  dearer  to  the  Muse 

Than  all  the  grape's  bewildering  juice, 

We  worship,  unf'orbid  of  thee; 

And  as  her  incense  floats  and  curls 

In  airy  spires  and  wayward  whirls, 

Or  poises  on  its  tremulous  stalk 

A  flower  of  frailest  reverie, 

So  winds  and  loiters,  idly  free, 

The  current  of  unguided  talk, 

Now  laughter-rippled,  and  now  caught 

In  smooth  dark  pools  of  deeper  thought. 

Meanwhile  thou  mellowest  every  word, 

A  sweetly  unobtrusive  third  .  .  . 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

(Incomplete.) 


In  spite  of  my  physician,  who  is,  entre  nous,  a 
fogy, 

And  for  every  little  pleasure  has  some  pathologic 
bogy, 

Who  will  bear  with  no  small  vices,  and  grows 
dismally  prophetic 

If  I  wander  from  the  weary  way  of  virtue  die- 
tetic; 


322          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

In  spite  of  dire  forewarnings  that  my  brains  will 
all  be  scattered, 

My  memory  extinguished,  and  my  nervous  sys- 
tem shattered, 

That  my  hand  will  take  to  trembling,  and  my  heart 
begin  to  flutter, 

My  digestion  turn  a  rebel  to  my  very  bread  and 
butter; 

As  I  puff  this  mild  Havana,  and  its  ashes  slowly 

lengthen, 
I    feel    my    courage    gather    and    my    resolution 

strengthen : 
I  will  smoke,  and  I  will  praise  you,  my  cigar,  and 

I  will  light  you 
With   tobacco-phobic    pamphlets   by   the    learned 

prigs  who  fight  you! 

Let  him  who  has  a  mistress  to  her  eyebrow  write 

a  sonnet, 

Let  the  lover  of  a  lily  pen  a  languid  ode  upon  it ; 
In  such  sentimental  subjects  I'm  a  Philistine  and 

cynic, 
And  prefer  the  inspiration  drawn  from  sources 

nicotinic. 

So  I  sing  of  you,  dear  product  of  (I  trust  you 

are)  Havana, 
And  if  there's  any  question  as  to  how  my  verses 

scan,  a 

Reason  is  my  shyness  in  the  Muses'  aid  invoking, 
As,   like   other   ancient   maidens,   they   perchance 

object  to  smoking. 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  323 

I  have  learnt   with   you   the  wisdom  of   contem- 
plative quiescence, 

While  the  world  is  in  a  ferment  of  unmeaning 
effervescence, 

That  its  jar  and  rush  and  riot  bring  no  good  one- 
half  so  sterling 

As  your  fleecy  clouds  of  fragrance  that  are  now 
about  me  curling. 

9dJ  fli  snutoiq  or 

So,  let  stocks  go  up  or  downward,  and  let  politi- 
cians wrangle, 

Let  the  parsons  and  philosophers  grope  in  a  wordy 
tangle, 

Let  those  who  want  them  scramble  for  their  dig- 
nities or  dollars, 

Be  millionaires  or  magnates,  or  senators  or  schol- 
ars. 

I  will  puff  my  mild  Havana,  and  I  quietly  will 
query, 

Whether,  when  the  strife  is  over,  and  the  combat- 
ants are  weary, 

Their  gains  will  be  more  brilliant  than  its  faint 
expiring  flashes, 

Or  more  solid  than  this  panful  of  its  dead  and 
sober  ashes. 

ARTHUR  W.  GUNDRY. 


324          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


PICTURES  IN  SMOKE 

In  a  rapt,  dreamy  quietude  I  sit 

Leisurely  puffing  clouds  from  my  cigar, 

And  down  the  sunbeams,  with  a  noiseless  tread, 
A  throng  of  elves  come  tripping  from  afar. 

Half  consciously  the  fairies  I  invoke 

To  paint  me  pictures  in  the  tinted  smoke.  .  .  . 

How  life  is  like  this  vapour!     Calm-eyed  Hope 
In  fairy  guise  paints  it  with  pictures  rare, 

And  while  we  gaze  and  stretch  out  eager  hands, 
Behold  the  phantoms  vanish  in  the  air! 

Urged  by  a  fate  no  pleading  can  revoke, 

We  grow  old  watching  pictures  in  the  smoke. 

T.  H.  ELLIOT. 

( Incomplete. ) 


LATAKIA 


When  all  the  panes  are  hung  with  frost, 
Wild  wizard-work  of  silver  lace, 
I  draw  my  sofa  on  the  rug, 
Before  the  ancient  chimney-place. 
Upon  the  painted  tiles  are  mosques 
And  minarets,  and  here  and  there 
A  blind  muezzin  lifts  his  hands, 
And  calls  the  faithful  unto  prayer. 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  325 

Folded  in  idle,  twilight  dreams, 

I  hear  the  hemlock  chirp  and  sing, 

As  if  within  its  ruddy  core 

It  held  the  happy  heart  of  Spring. 

Ferdousi  never  sang  like  that, 

Nor  Saadi  grave,  nor  Hafiz  gay; 

I  lounge,  and  blow  white  rings  of  smoke, 

And  watch  them  rise  and  float  away. 

ii 

The  curling  wreaths  like  turbans  seem 
Of  silent  slaves  that  come  and  go, — 
Or  Viziers,  packed  with  craft  and  crime, 
Whom  I  behead  from  time  to  time, 
With  pipe-stem,  at  a  single  blow. 
And  now  and  then  a  lingering  cloud 
Takes  gracious  form  at  my  desire, 
And  at  my  side  my  lady  stands; 
Unwinds  her  veil  with  snowy  hands,— 
A  shadowy  shape,  a  breath  of  fire! 

0  Love,  if  you  were  only  here 
Beside  me  in  this  mellow  light, 
Though  all  the  bitter  winds  should  blow, 
And  all  the  ways  be  choked  with  snow, 
'Twould  be  a  true  Arabian  night! 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 


326          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


SWEET  SMOAKING  PIPE 

Sweet  smoaking  Pipe,  bright-glowing  Stove, 

Companion  still  of  my  Retreat, 
Thou  dost  my  gloomy  Thoughts  remove, 

And  purge  my  Brain  with  gentle  Heat. 

Tobacco,  Charmer  of  my  Mind, 
When,  like  the  Meteor's  transient  Gleam, 

Thy  Substance  gone  to  Air  I  find, 
I  think,  alas,  my  Life's  the  same! 

What  else  but  lighted  Dust  am  I? 

Thou  shew'st  me  what  my  Fate  will  be; 
And  when  my  sinking  Ashes  die, 

I  learn  that  I  must  end  like  thee. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE  SMOKER'S  CALENDAR 

When  January's  cold  appears, 
A  glowing  pipe  my  spirit  cheers; 
And  still  it  glads  the  length'ning  day 
'Neath  February's  milder  sway. 
When  March's  keener  winds  succeed, 
What  charms  me  like  the  burning  weed? 
When  April  mounts  his  solar  car, 
I  join  him,  puffing  a  cigar; 
And  May,  so  beautiful  and  bright, 
Still  finds  the  pleasing  weed  a-light. 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  327 

To  balmy  zephyrs  it  gives  rest 
When  June  in  gayest  livery's  drest. 
Through  July,  Flora's  offspring  smile, 
But  still  Nieotia's  can  beguile; 
And  August,  when  its  fruits  are  ripe, 
Matures  my  pleasure  in  a  pipe. 
September  finds  me  in  the  garden, 
Communing  with  a  long  churchwarden. 
Even  in  the  wane  of  dull  October 
I  smoke  my  pipe  and  sip  my  "robar." 
November's  soaking  show'rs  require 
The  smoking  pipe  and  blazing  fire. 
The  darkest  day  in  drear  December's — 
That's  lighted  by  their  glowing  embers. 

AKONYMOUS. 


INTER  SODALES 

Over  a  pipe  the  Angel  of  Conversation 
Loosens  with  glee  the  tassels  of  his  purse, 
And,  in  a  fine  spiritual  exaltation, 
Hastens,  a  Very  spendthrift,  to  disburse 
The  coins  new  minted  of  imagination. 

An  amiable,  a  delicate  animation 

Informs  our  thought,  and  earnest  we  rehearse 
The  sweet  old  farce  of  mutual  admiration 
Over  a  pipe. 

Heard  in  this  hour's  delicious  divagation, 
How  soft  the  song!  the  epigram  how  terse! 


328          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

With  what  a  genius  for  administration 

We  rearrange  the  rambling  universe, 

And  map  the  course  of  man's  regeneration, 

Over  a  pipe. 
1875.  W.  E.  HENLEY. 


MEERSCHAUM 

Come  to  me,  0  my  meerschaum, 
For  the  vile  street-organs  play, 
And  the  torture  they're  inflicting 
Will  vanish  quite  away. 

I  open  my  study  window 

And  into  the  twilight  peer, 

And  my  anxious  eyes  are  watching 

For  the  man  with  my  evening  beer. 

In  one  hand  is  the  shining  pewter. 

All  amber  the  ale  doth  glow; 

In  t'other  are  long  "church -wardens" 

A  il  1 

As  spotless  and  pure  as  snow. 

* 

Ah,  what  would  the  world  be  to  us 
Tobaccoless  ? — Fearful  bore ! 
We  should  dread  the  day  after  to-morrow 
Worse  than  the  day  before. 

As  the  elephant's  trunk  to  the  creature, 
Is  the  pipe  to  the  man,  I  trow; 
Useful  and  meditative 
As  the  cud  to  the  peaceful  cow. 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  329 

So  to   the  world   is  smoking; 
Through  that  we  feel  with  bliss 
That,   whatever  worlds   come  after, 
A  jolly  old  world  is  this. 

Come  to  me,  0  my  meerschaum, 
And  whisper  to  me  here, 
If  you  like  me  better  than  coffee, 
Than  grog,  or  the  bitter  beer. 

Oh,  what  are  our  biggest  winnings, 
If  peaceful  content  we  miss? 
Though  fortune  may  give  us  an  innings, 
She  seldom  conveys  us  bliss. 

You're  better  than  all  the  fortunes 
That  ever  were  made  or  broke; 
For  a  penny  will  always  fill  you 
And  buy  me  content  with  a  smoke. 

ANONYMOUS. 


SMOKE  IS  THE  FOOD  OF  LOVERS 

When  Cupid  open'd  shop,  the  trade  he  chose 
Was  just  the  very  one  you  might  suppose. 
Love  keep  a  shop? — his  trade,  oh!  quickly  name! 
A  dealer  in  tobacco — fie,  for  shame! 
No  less  than  true,  and  set  aside  all  joke, 
From  oldest  time  he  ever  dealt  in  smoke; 
Than  smoke,  no  other  thing  he  sold,  or  made ; 
Smoke  all  the  substance  of  his  stock  in  trade ; 


330          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

His  capital  all  smoke,  smoke  all  his  store, 

'Twas  nothing  else;  but  lovers  ask  no  more — • 

And  thousands  enter  daily  at  his  door! 

Hence  it  was  ever,  and  it  e'er  will  be 

The  trade  most  suited  to  his  faculty: 

Fed  by  the  vapours  of  their  heart's  desire, 

No  other  food  his  votaries  require; 

For  that  they  seek — the  favour  of  the  fair — 

Is  unsubstantial  as  the  smoke  and  air. 

JACOB  CATS,  Trans,  by  RICHARD  PIGOT. 


THE  INDIAN  WEED 

This  Indian  weed,  now  withered  quite, 
Though  green  at  noon,  cut  down  at  night, 

Shows  thy  decay; 

All  flesh  is  hay: 

Thus  think,  and  drink  tobacco. 

The  pipe,  so  lily-like  and  weak, 
Does  thus  thy  mortal  state  bespeak; 

Thou  art  e'en  such, — 

Gone  with  a  touch: 

Thus  think,  and  drink  tobacco. 

And  when  the  smoke  ascends  on  high, 
Then  thou  behold'st  the  vanity 

Of  worldly  stuff, 

Gone  with  a  puff: 

Thus  think,  and  drink  tobacco. 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  331 

And  when  the  pipe  grows  foul  within, 
Think  on  thy  soul  defiled  with  sin; 

For  then  the  fire 

It  does  require: 

Thus  think,  and  drink  tobacco. 

And  seest  the  ashes  cast  away, 
Then  to  thyself  thou  mayest  say, 
That  to  the  dust 
Return  thou  must: 

Thus  think,  and  drink  tobacco. 

ANONYMOUS. 


ON   RECEIPT    OF   A   RARE   PIPE 

• !  y 
I  lifted  off  the  lid  with  anxious  care, 

Removed  the  wrappages,  stripe  after  stripe, 
And  when  the  hidden  contents  were  laid  bare, 
My  first  remark  was:     "Mercy,  what  a  pipe!" 

A  pipe  of  symmetry  that  matched  its  size, 
Mounted  with  metal  bright, — a  sight  to  see; 

With  the  rich  amber  hue  that  smokers  prize, 
Attesting  both  its  age  and  pedigree. 

A  pipe  to  make  the  royal  Friedrich  jealous, 
Or  the  great  Teufelsdrb'ckh  with  envy  gripe! 

A  man  should  hold  some  rank  above  his  fellows 
To  justify  his  smoking  such  a  pipe! 

What  country  gave  it  birth?    What  blest  of  cities 
Saw  it  first  kindle  at  the  glowing  coal? 


332          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

What  happy  artist  murmured,  ''Nunc  dimittis," 
When  he  had  fashioned  this  transcendent  bowl? 

Has  it  been  hoarded  in  a  monarch's  treasures'? 

Was  it  a  gift  of  peace,  or  prize  of  war? 
Did  the  great  Khalif  in  his  "House  of  Pleasures" 

Wager  and  lose  it  to  the  good  Zaafar? 

It  may  have  soothed  mild  Spenser's  melancholy, 
While  musing  o'er  traditions  of  the  past, 

Or  graced  the  lips  of  brave  Sir  Walter  Raleigh, 
Ere  sage  King  Jamie  blew  his  "Counterblast." 

Did  it,  safe  hidden  in  some  secret  cavern, 
Escape  that  monarch's  pipoclastic  ken? 

Has  Shakespeare  smoked  it  at  the  Mermaid  Tav- 
ern, 
Quaffing  a  cup  of  sack  with  rare  old  Ben? 

Ay,    Shakespeare   might   have   watched    his   vast 

creations 
Loom  through  its  smoke, — the  spectre-haunted 

Thane, 

The  Sisters  at.  their  ghostly  invocations, 
The  jealous  Moor,  and  melancholy  Dane. 

Round  its  orbed  haze  and  through  its  mazy  ring- 
lets, 

Titania  may  have  led  her  elfin  rout, 
Or  Ariel  fanned  it  with  his  gauzy  winglets, 

Or  Puck  danced  in  the  bowl  to  put  it  out. 

Vain  are  all  fancies, — questions  bring  no  answer; 
The  smokers  vanish,  but  the  pipe  remains; 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  333 

He  were  indeed  a  subtle  necromancer, 

Could  read  their  records  in  its  cloudy  stains. 

Nor  this  alone.     Its  destiny  may  doom  it 
To  outlive  e'en  its  use  and  history; 

Some  ploughman  of  the  future  may  exhume  it 
From  soil  now  deep  beneath  the  Eastern  sea. 

And,  treasured  by  some  antiquarian  Stultus, 
It  may  to  gaping  visitors  be  shown 

Labelled:     "The  symbol  of  some  ancient  cultus 
Conjecturally  Phallic,  but  unknown." 

Why  do  I  thus  recall  the  ancient  quarrel 

'Twixt  Man   and  Time,  that  marks  all  earthly 
things? 

Why  labour  to  re-word  the  hackneyed  moral 
'fis  <f)vXXwv  yfvcrj,  as  Homer  sings'? 

For  this:     Some  links  we  forge  are  never  broken; 

Some  feelings  claim  exemption  from  decay; 
And  Love,  of  which  this  pipe  is  but  the  token, 

Shall  last,  though  pipes  and  smokers  pass  away. 

ANONYMOUS. 


A  FAREWELL  TO  TOBACCO 

May  the  Babylonish  curse 

Straight  confound  my  stammering  verse 

If  I  can  a  passage  see 

In  this  word-perplexity,    • 


334          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Or  a  fit  expression  find, 

Or  a  language  to  my  mind 

(Still  the  phrase  is  wide  or  scant), 

To  take  leave  of  thee,  GREAT  PLANT! 

Or  in  any  terms  relate 

Half  my  love,  or  half  my  hate; 

For  I  hate,  yet  love,  thee  so, 

That,  whichever  thing  I  show, 

The  plain  truth  will  seem  to  be 

A  constrain'd  hyperbole, 

And  the  passion  to  proceed 

More  from  a  mistress  than  a  weed. 

Sooty  retainer  to  the  vine, 
Bacchus'  black  servant,  negro  fine; 
Sorcerer,  that  mak'st  us  dole  upon 
Thy  begrimed  complexion, 
And,  for  thy  pernicious  sake, 
More  and  greater  oaths  to  break 
Than  reclaimed  lovers  take 
'Gainst  women  :  thou  thy  siege  dost  lay 
Much  too  in  the  female  way, 
While  thou  suck'st  the  lab'ring  breath 
Faster  than  kisses  or  than  death. 


Thou  in  such  a  cloud  dost  bind  us, 
That  our  worst  foes  cannot  find  us, 
And  ill-fortune,  that  would  thwart  us, 
Shoots  at  rovers,  shooting  at  us; 
While    each    man,    through    thy    height'ning 

steam 

Does  like  a  smoking  Etna  seem, 
And  all  about  us  does  express 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  335 

(Fancy  and  wit  in  richest  dress) 
A  Sicilian  fruitfulness. 

Thou  through  such  a  mist  doth  show  us, 
That  our  best  friends  do  not  know  us, 
And,  for  those  allowed  features, 
Due  to  reasonable  creatures, 
Liken'st  us  to  fell  Chimeras, 
Monsters  that,  who  see  us,  fear  us; 
Worse  than  Cerberus  or  Geryon, 
Or,  who  first  loved  a  cloud,  Ixion. 

Bacchus  we  know,  and  we  allow 
His  tipsy  rites.    But  what  art  thou, 
That  but  by  reflex  canst  show 
What  this  deity  can  do, 
As  the  false  Egyptian  spell 
Aped  the  true  Hebrew  miracle? 
Some  few  vapours  thou  mayst  raise 
The  weak  brain  may  serve  to  amaze, 
But  to  the  reins  and  nobler  heart 
Canst  not  life  nor  heat  impart. 

Brother  of  Bacchus,  later  born, 
The  Old  World  was  sure  forlorn 
Wanting  thee,  that  aidest  more 
The  god's  victories  than  before 
All  his  panthers,  and  the  brawls 
Of  his  piping  Bacchanals. 
These,  as  stale,  we  disallow, 
Or  judge  of  thee  meant;  only  thou 
His  true  Indian  conquest  art; 
And,  for  ivy  round  his  dart, 


336          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

The  reformed  god  now  weaves 
A  finer  thyrsus  of  thy  leaves. 

Scent  to  match  thy  rich  perfume 
Chemic  art  did  ne'er  presume, 
Through  her  quaint  alembic  strain, 
None  so  sov'reign  to  the  brain. 
Nature,  that  did  in  thee  excel, 
Framed  again  no  second  smell. 
Keses,  violets,  but  toys 
For  the  smaller  sort  of  boys, 
Or  for  greener  damsels  meant; 
Thou  art  the  only  manly  scent. 

Stinkingfst  of  the  stinking  kind, 
Filth  of  the  mouth  and  fog  of  the  mind, 
Africa,  that  brags  her  foison, 
Breeds  no  such  prodigious  poison, 
Henbane,  nightshade,  both  together, 
Hemlock,  aconite — 

Nay,  rather, 

Plant  divine,  of  rarest  virtue; 
Blisters  on  the  tongue  would  hurt  you. 
'Twas  but  in  a  sort  I  blamed  thee; 
None  e'er  prosper'd  who  defamed  thee; 
Irony  all,  and  feign'd  abuse, 
Such  as  perplex' d  lovers  use 
At  a  need  when,  in  despair 
To  paint  forth  their  fairest  fair, 
Or  in  part  but  to  express 
That  exceeding  comeliness 
Which  their  fancies  doth  so  strike, 
They  borrow  language  of  dislike; 


OUR  LADY  NICOTINE  337 

And,  instead  of  Dearest  Miss, 
Jewel,  Honey,  Sweetheart,  Bliss, 
And  those  forms  of  old  admiring, 
Call  her  Cockatrice  and  Siren, 
Basilisk,  and  all  that's  evil, 
Witch,  Hyena,  Mermaid,  Devil, 
Ethiop,  Wench,  and  Blackamore, 
Monkey,  Ape,  and  twenty  more, 
Friendly  Trait'ress,  loving  Foe, — 
Not  that  she  is  truly  so", 
But  no  other  way  they  know 
A  contentment  to  express, 
Borders  so  upon  excess 
That  they  do  not  rightly  wot 
Whether  it  be  pain  or  not. 

Or  as  men,  constrain'd  to  part 
With  what's  nearest  to  their  heart, 
While  their  sorrow's  at  the  height 
Lose  discrimination  quite, 
And  their  hasty  wrath  let  fall, 
To  appease  their  frantic  gall, 
On  the  darling  thing  whatever 
Whence  they  feel  it  death  to  sever, 
Though  it  be,  as  they,  perforce, 
Guiltless  of  the  sad  divorce. 

For  I  must  (nor  let  it  grieve  thee, 
Friendliest  of  plants,  that  I  must)  leave  thee. 
For  thy  sake,  TOBACCO,  I 
Would  do  anything  but  die, 
And  but  seek  to  extend  my  days 
Long  enough  to  sing  thy  praise. 


338          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

But  as  she  who  once  hath  been 
A  king's  consort  is  a  queen 
Ever  after,  nor  will  bate 
Any  tittle  of  her  state, 
Though  a  widow  or  divorced, 
So  I,  from  thy  converse  forced, 
The  old  name  and  style  retain, 
A  right  Katherine  of  Spain; 
And  a  seat,  too,  'mongst  the  joys 
Of  the  blest  Tobacco  Boys, 
Where,  though  I  by  sour  physician 
Am  debarr'd  the  full  fruition 
Of  thy  favours,  I  may  catch 
Some  collateral  sweets,  and  snatch 
Sidelong  odours,  that  give  life 
Like  glances  from  a  neighbour's  wife, 
And  still  live  in  the  by-places 
And  the  suburbs  of  thy  graces, 
And  in  thy  borders  take  delight, 
An  unconquer'd  Canaanite. 

CHARLES  LAMB. 


SWEET  CONTENT 


Give  a  man  a  pipe  he  can  smoke, 
Give  a  man  a  book  he  can  read; 

And  his  home  is  bright  with  a  calm  delight, 
Though  the  room  be  poor  indeed. 

JAMES  THOMSON. 


SPECTATOR  AB  EXTRA 

As  I  sat  at  the  cafe  I  said  to  myself, 

They  may  talk  as  they   please  about  what  they 

call  pelf, 
They  may  sneer  as  they  like  about  eating  and 

drinking1, 

But  help  it  I  cannot,  I  cannot  help  thinking 
How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh-ho ! 
How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money.  .  .  . 

They  may  talk  as  they  please  about  what  they 

'call  pelf, 

And  how  one  ought  never  to  think  of  one's-self, 
How    pleasures    of   thought   surpass   eating   and 

drinking, 

My  pleasure  of  thought  is  the  pleasure  of  think- 
ing 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh-ho! 
How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money.  .  .  . 

ARTHUR  H.  CLOUGH. 

( Incomplete. ) 

. 

A  little  health,  a  little  wealth, 

A  little  house  and -freedom, 
With  some  few  friends  for  certain  ends 

And  little  cause  to  need  'em. 
341 


342          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


A  MORALITY 

Of  all  the  meals  that  ever  were 

(My  stormful  youth's  conclusion  this  is) 

None  for  a  minute  will  compare 

With  one  of  bread  and  cheese  and  kisses. 


Ah  me!    Across  the  sundering  seas 

The  summer  twinkles  with  the  swallow. 

Well,  well ! — a  crust  of  bread  and  cheese  ? 
With  pleasure — and  a  pipe  to  follow. 

1877.  W.  E.  HENLEY. 


YOUTH  AND  AGE 

Youth  hath  many  charms, — 

Hath  many  joys  and  much  delight; 

Even  its  doubts,  and  vague  alarms, 
By  contrast  make  it  bright : 

And  yet — and  yet — forsooth, 
I  love  Age  as  well  as  Youth ! 

Well,  since  I  love  them  both, 

The  good  of  both  I  will  combine, — 

In  women  I  will  look  for  Youth, 
And  look  for  Age  in  wine : 

And  then — and  then — I'll  bless 

This  twain  that  gives  me  happiness! 

GEORGE  ARNOLD. 


SWEET  CONTENT  343 


A  THANKSGIVING 

I  thank  thee,  Earth,  for  water  good, 
The  sea's  great  bath  of  buoyant  green 
Or  the  cold  mountain  torrent's  flood, 
That  I  may  keep  this  body  clean. 

I  thank  thee  more  for  goodly  wine,    • 
That  wise  as  Omar  I  may  be, 
Or  Horace  when  he  went  to  dine 
With  Lydia  or  with  Lalage. 

BLISS  CABMAN. 


No  one  bull-dog  yet  could  eat 
Any  other  bull-dog's  meat; 
If  you  have  a  good-sized  bone, 
Let  the  other  dog  alone. 

CHANNINO. 


OLD  SONG 

'Tis  a  dull  sight 

To  see  the  year  dying, 
When  winter  winds 

Set   the  yellow  wood   sighing: 
Sighing,  0  sighing. 


344,         THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

When  such  a  time  cometh 

I  do  retire 
Into  an  old  room 

Beside  a  bright  fire: 

0  pile  a  bright  fire!  .  .  . 

Then  with  an  old  friend 

I  talk  of  our  youth — 
How  'twas  gladsome,  but  often 

Foolish,  forsooth : 

But  gladsome,  gladsome!  .  .  . 

Then  go  we  smoking, 

Silent  and  snug: 
Naught  passes  between  us 
Save  a  brown  jug — 
Sometimes ! 

EDWARD  FITZGERALD. 

(Incomplete.) 


More  luck  to  honest  poverty, 

It  claims  respect  and  a'  that; 
But  honest  wealth's  a  better  thing, 
We  dare  be  rich  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 
And  sponey  cant  and  a'  that, 
A  man  may  have  a  ten-pun  note 
And  be  a  brick  for  a'  that. 

SHIRLEY  BROOKS. 

(Incomplete.) 


SWEET  CONTENT  345 


PROCUL  NEGOTIIS 

I  think  that  if  I  had  a  farm, 

I'd  be  a  man  of  sense; 
And  if  the  day  was  bright  and  warm 

I'd  sit  upon  the  fence, 
And  calmly  smoke  a  pensive  pipe 

And  think  about  my  pigs; 
And  wonder  if  the  corn  was  ripe; 

And  counsel  I'homme  qui  digs. 

And  if  the  day  was  wet  and  cold, 

I  think  I  should  admire 
To  sit  and  dawdle  over  old 

Montaigne  before  the  fire; 
And  pity  boobies  who  could  lie 

And  squabble  just  for  pelf; 
And  thank  my  blessed  stars  that  I 

Was  nicely  fixed  myself. 

E.  S.  MARTIN. 


FRIAR'S  SONG 

I  am  a  friar  of  orders  gray, 
And  down  the  valleys  I  take  my  way; 
I  pull  not  blackberry,  haw,  or  hip, — 
Good  store  of  venison   fills  my  scrip; 


346          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

My  long  bead-roll  I  merrily  chant; 

Where'er  I  walk  no  money  I  want; 

And  why  I'm  so  plump  the  reason  I  tell, — 

Who  lives  a  good  life  is  sure  to  live  well. 
What  baron  or  squire, 
Or  knight  of  the  shire, 
Lives  half  so  well  as  a  holy  friar  t 

After  supper  of  heaven  I  dream, 

But  that  is  a  pullet  and  clouted  cream; 

Myself,  by  denial,  I  mortify — 

With  a  dainty  bit  of  a  warden  pie; 

I'm  clothed  in  sackcloth  for  my  sin, — 

With  old  sack  wine  I'm  lined  within ; 

A  chirping  cup  is  my  matin  song, 

And  the  vesper's  bell  is  my  bowl,  ding  dong. 

What  baron  or  squire, 

Or  knight  of  the  shire, 

Lives  half  so  well  as  a  holy  friar? 

JOHN  O'KEEFE. 
("Robin  Hood.") 

TO  RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER 

(With  a  Volume  of   Verses.) 

Old  friends  are  best!     And  so  to  you 
Again  I  send,  in  closer  throng, 
No  unfamiliar  shapes  of  song, 

But  those  that  once  you  liked  and  knew. 

You  surely  will  not  do  them  wrong; 
For  are  you  not  an  old  friend,  too? — 
Old  friends  are  best. 


SWEET  CONTENT  347 

Old  books,  old  wine,  old  Nankin  blue; — 
All  things,  in  short,  to  which  belong 
The    charm,    the    grace    that    Time   makes 

strong, — 
All  these  I  prize,  but  (entre  nous) 

Old  friends  are  best! 

AUSTIN  DOBSON. 


; 

FRIAR'S  SONG 

Some  love  the  matin-chimes,  which  tell 

The  hour  of  prayer  to  sinner: 
But  better  far's  the  mid-day  bell, 

Which  speaks  the  hour  of  dinner; 
For  when  I  see  a  smoking  fish, 

Or  capon  drowned  in  gravy, 
Or  noble  haunch  of  silver  dish, 

Full  glad  I  sing  my  Ave. 

.:;   I  jbnu'A  -. 
My  pulpit  is  an  alehouse  bench, 

Whereon  I  sit  so  jolly; 
A  smiling  rosy  country  wench 

My  saint  and  patron  holy. 
I  kiss  her  cheek  so  red  and  sleek, 

I  press  her  ringlets  wavy, 
And  in  her  willing  ear  I  speak 

A  most  religious  Ave. 

And  if  I'm  blind,  yet  Heaven  is  kind, 
And  holy  saints  forgiving; 


348          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

For  sure  he  leads  a  right  good  life 
Who  thus  admires  good  living. 

Above,  they  say,  our  flesh  is  air, 
Our  blood  celestial  ichor: 

Oh,  grant!  'mid  all  the  changes  there, 
They  may  not  change  our  liquor! 

WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 


THE   CRICKET   ON  THE  HEARTH 
(Imitated  from  the  French  of  Beranger.) 

In  the  evening,  I  sit  near  my  poker  and  tongs, 
And  I  dream  in  the  firelight's  glow, 

And  sometimes  I  quaver  forgotten  old  songs 
That  I  listened  to  long  ago. 

Then  out  of  the  cinders  there  cometh  a  chirp 
.  Like  an  echoing,  answering  cry, — 

Little  we  care  for  the  outside  world, 
My  friend  the  cricket  and  I. 

For  my  cricket  has  learnt,  I  am  sure  of  it  quite, 

That  this  earth  is  a  silly,  strange  place, 
And  perhaps  he's  been  beaten  and  hurt  in  the 
fight, 

And  perhaps  he's  been  passed  in  the  race. 
But  I  know  he  has  found  it  far  better  to  sing 

Than  to  talk  of  ill  luck  and  to  sigh, — 
Little  we  care  for  the  outside  world, 

My  friend  the  cricket  and  I. 

Perhaps  he  has  loved,  and  perhaps  he  has  lost, 
And  perhaps  he  is  weary  and  weak, 


SWEET  CONTENT  349 

And  tired  of  life's  torrent,  so  turbid  and  tost, 
And   disposed  to  be  mournful   and  meek. 

Yet  still  I  believe  that  he  thinks  it  is  best 
To  sing1,  and  let  troubles  float  by, — 

Little  we  care  for  the  outside  world, 
My  friend  the  cricket  and  I. 


In  childhood's  unsuspicious  hours 

The   fairies   crowned  my  head  with  flowers. 

She  smiled  and  said  my  song  was  sweet. 
Youth  came:     I  lay  at  Beauty's  feet; 

Then  age:  and,  Love  no  longer  mine, 
My  brows  I  shaded  with  the  vine, 

With  flowers  and  love  and  wine  and  song, 
0  Death!  life  hath  not  been  too  long. 

W.  J.  LlNTON. 


DOUBLE,  DOUBLE,  TOIL  AND  TROUBLE! 


"For  God's  sake,  a  pot  of  small  ale" — The  Tam- 
ing of  the  Shrew. 


GOOD  AND  BAD  LUCK 
After  Heine. 

Good  luck  is  the  gayest  of  all  gay  girls, 
Long  in  one  place  she  will  not  stay, 

Back  from  your  brow  she  strokes  the  curls, 
Kisses  you  quick  and  flies  away. 

But  Madame  Bad  Luck  soberly  comes 
'And  stays, — no  fancy  has  she  for  flitting, — 

Snatches  of  true  love-songs  she  hums,  • 

And  sits  by  your  bed,  and  brings  her  knitting. 

JOHN  HAY. 


COMPLEYNTE  TO  HIS  PURSE 

To  you,  my  purse,  and  to  none  other  wight, 
Complain  I,  for  ye  be  my  lady  dere; 
I  am  sorry  now  that  ye  be  light, 
For,  certes,  ye  now  make  me  heavy  chere; 
Me  were  as  lefe  be  laid  upon  a  bere, 
For  which  unto  your  mercy  thus  I  crie, 
Be  heavy  againe,  or  els  mote  I  die. 
353 


354          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

Now  vouchsafe  this  day,  or  it  be  night, 
That  I  of  you  the  blissful  sowne  may  here, 
Or  see  your  color  like  the  sunne  bright, 
That  of  yellowness  had  never  pere; 
Ye  are  my  life,  ye  be  my  hertes  stere, 
Queen  of  comfort  and  of  good  companie, 
Be  heavy  againe,  or  els  mote  I  die. 


Now  purse,  thou  art  to  me  my  lives  light, 
And  saviour,  as  downe  in  this  world  here, 
Out  of  this  towne  helpe  me  by  your  might, 
Sith  that  you  will  not  be  my  treasure, 
For  I  am  slave  as  nere  to  any  frere, 
But  I  pray  unto  your  courtesie, 
Be  heavy  againe,  or  els  mole  I  die. 

GEOFFREY  CHAUCER. 


TO   THE   TERRESTRIAL   GLOBE 
By  a  Miserable  Wretch. 

Roll  on,  thou  ball,  roll  on! 
Through  pathless  realms  of  space 

Roll  on! 

What  though  I'm  in  a  sorry  case? 
What  though  I  cannot  meet  my  bills? 
What  though  I  suffer  tooth-ache's  ills? 
What  though  I  swallow  countless  pills? 

Never  you  mind ! 
Roll  on! 


DOUBLE,  DOUBLE  355 

Roll  on,  thou  ball,  roll  on! 
Through  seas  of  inky  air 

Roll  on! 

It's  true  I've   got  no  shirts  to   wear; 
It's  true  my  butcher's  bill  is  due; 
It's  true  my  prospects  all  look  blue — 
But  don't  let  that  unsettle  you ! 

Never  you  mind ! 

Roll  on!     (7*  rolls  on.) 

W.  S.  GILBERT. 


"Had  I  a  little  son,  I  would  christen  him  'Nothing- 
to-do.'  "  CHARLES  LAMB. 

I  would  I  had  something  to  do — or  to  think! 

Or  something  to  read,  or  to  write! 
I  am  rapidly  verging  on  lunacy's  brink, 

Or  I  shall  be  dead  before  night. 


In  my  ears  has  been  ringing  and  droning  all  day, 

Without  ever  a  stop  or  a  change, 
That  poem  of  Tennyson's — heart-cheering  lay! — 

Of  the  moated  monotonous  Grange! 

The  stripes  in  the  carpet  and  paper  alike 
I  have  counted,  and  counted  all  through, 

And  now  I've  a  fervid  ambition  to  strike 
Out  some  path  of  wild  pleasure  that's  new. 


356          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

They  say,  if  a  number  you  count,  and  recount, 
That  the  time  imperceptibly  goes, — 

Ah!   I  wish — how  I  wish! — I'd  ne'er  learnt  the 

amount 
Of  my  aggregate  fingers  and  toes. 

"Enjoyment  is  fleeting,"  the  proverbs  all  say, 
•'Even  that  which  it  feeds  upon  fails." 

I've  arrived  at  the  truth  of  the  saying  to-day, 
By  devouring  the  whole  of  my  nails. 

I  have  numbered  the  minutes  so  heavy  and  slow, 

Till  of  that  dissipation  I  tire, 
And  as  for  exciting  amusements, — you  know 

One  can't  always  be  stirring  the  fire. 

THOMAS  HOOD. 


BEHOLD  THE  DEEDS 
(Chant  Royal) 

I  would  that  all  men  my  hard  case  might  know; 

How  grievously  I  suffer  for  no  sin : 
I,  Adolphe  Culpepper  Furguson,  for  lo! 

I,  of  my  landlady,  am  locked  in, 
For  being  short  on  this  sad  Saturday, 
Nor  having  shekels  of  silver  wherewith  to  pay; 

She  has  turned  and  is  departed  with  my  key; 

Wherefore,  not  even  as  other  boarders  free, 
I  sing  (as  prisoners  to  their  dungeon  stones 

When  for  ten  days  they  expiate  a  spree) : 
Behold  the  deeds  that  are  done  of  Mrs.  Jones! 


DOUBLE,  DOUBLE  357 

One  night  and  one  day  have  I  wept  my  woe; 

Nor  wot  I  when  the  morrow  doth  begin, 
If  I  shall  have  to  write  to  Briggs  &  Co., 

To  pray  them  to  advance  the  requisite  tin 
For  ransom  of  their  salesman,  that  he  may 
Go  forth  as  other  boarders  go  alway — 

As  those  I  hear  now  flocking  from  their  tea, 

Led  by  the  daughter  of  my  landlady 

Piano-ward.     This  day  for  all  my  moans 

Dry  bread  and  water  have  been  served  me. 
Behold  the  deeds  that  are  done  of  Mrs.  Jones ! 


Miss  Amabel  Jones  is  musical,  and  so 

The  heart  of  the  young  he-boarder  doth  win, 

Playing  "The  Maiden's  Prayer,"  adagio — 
That  fetcheth  him,  as  fetcheth  the  banco  skin 

The  innocent  rustic.     For  my  part,  I  pray: 

That  Badaijewska  maid  may  wait  for  aye 
Ere  she  sits  with  a  lover,  as  did  we 
Once  sit  together,  Amabel !     Can  it  be 

That  all  that  arduous  wooing  not  atones 
For  Saturday  shortness  of  trade  dollars  three? 
Behold  the  deeds  that  are  done  of  Mrs.  Jones ! 


Yea!  she  forgets  the  arm  was  wont  to  go 

Around  her  waist.     She  wears  a  buckle  whose 
pin 

Galleth  the  crook  of  the  young  man's  elbow; 
/  forget  not,  for  I  that  youth  have  been. 

Smith  was  aforetime  the  Lothario  gay. 

Yet  once,  T  mind  me,  Smith  was  forced  to  stay 
Close  in  his  room.     Not  calm,  as  I,  was  he; 


358          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

But  his  noise  brought  no  pleasaunce,  verily. 

Small  ease  he  gat  of  pla3'ing  on  the  bones, 
Or  hammering  on  his  stove-pipe,  that  I  see. 

Behold  the  deeds  that  are  done  of  Mrs.  Jones ! 

Thou  for  whose  fear  the  figurative  crow 

I  eat,  accursed  be  thou  and  all  thy  kin! 
Thee  will  I  show  up — yea,  up  will  I  show 

Thy  too  thick  buckwheats  and  thy  tea  too  thin. 
Ay !  here  I  dare  thee,  ready  for  the  f r^y ! 
Thou  dost  not  "keep  a  first-class  house,"  I  say! 

It  does  not  with  the  advertisements  agree. 

Thou  lodgest  a  Briton  with  a  puggaree, 
And  thou  hast  harboured  Jacobses  and  Colms, 

Also  a  Mulligan.     Thus  denounce  I  thee! 

Behold  the  deeds  that  are  done  of  Mrs.  Jones ! 

Envoy. 

Boarders!  the  worst  I  have  not  told  to  ye: 
She  hath  stolen  my  trousers,  that  I  may  not  flee 

Privily  by  the  window.     Hence  these  groans, — 
There  is  no  fleeing  in  a  robe  de  nuit. 

Behold  the  deeds  that  are  done  of  Mrs.  Jones! 
HENRY  CUTLER  BUNNER. 


EPIGRAM 

I  have  lost  my  mistress,  horse  and  wife, 
And  when  I  think  of  human  life, 

Cry  mercy  'twas  no  worse. 
My  mistress  sickly,  poor  and  old, 


DOUBLE,  DOUBLE  359 

My  wife  damn'd  ugly,  and  a  scold, — 

I  am  sorry  for  my  horse. 
The  New  Foundling  Hospital  for  Wit.    1786. 


FUIT   ILIUM 

Ere  you  dissipate  a  quarter 
Do  you  scrutinize  it  twice? 

Have  you  ceased  to  look  on  water- 
Drinking'  as  a  nauseous  vice"? 

Do   you   wear  your  brother's  breeches, 
Though  the  buttons  scarcely  meet? 

Does  the  vanity  of  riches 
Form  no  part  of  your  conceit? 

I  am  with  you,  fellow  pauper! 

Let  us  share  our  scanty  crust — 
Burst  the  bonds  of  fiscal  torpor — 

Go  where  beer  is  sold  on  trust! 
Let  us,  freed  from  res  angustae, 

Seek  some  fair  Utopian  mead 
Where  the  throat  is  never  dusty, 

And  tobacco  grows,  a  weed. 

E.  S.  MARTIN. 


(Incomplete.) 


360         THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


TO  CRITICS 

When  I  was  seventeen  I  heard 
From  each  censorious  tongue, 

"I'd  not  do  that  if  I  were  you; 
You  see  you're  rather  young." 

Now  that  I  number  forty  years, 

I'm  quite  as  often  told 
Of  this  or  that  I  shouldn't  do 

Because  I'm  quite  too  old. 

0  carping  world!     If  there's  an  age 
Where  youth  and  manhood  keep 

An  equal  poise,  alas !     I  must 
Have  passed  it  in  my  sleep. 

WALTER  LEARNED. 


IF  I  SHOULD  DIE 

If  I  should  die  to-night 

And  you  should  come  to  my  cold  corpse  and  say, 
Weeping  and  heartsick  o'er  my  lifeless  clay — 

If  I  should  die  to-night, 

And  you  should  come  in  deepest  grief  and  woe — 
And  say:     "Here's  that  ten  dollars  that  I  owe," 

I  might  arise  in  my  large  white  cravat 

And  say,  "What's  that?" 


DOUBLE,  DOUBLE  361 

If  I  should  die  to-night 

And  you  should  come  to  my  cold  corpse  and  kneel, 
Clasping  my  bier  to  show  the  grief  you  feel, 

I  say,  if  I  should  die  to-night 
And  you  should  come  to  me,  and  there  and  then 
Just  even  hint  'bout  payin'  me  that  ten, 

I  might  arise  the  while, 

But  I'd  drop  dead  again. 

BEN  KING. 


At  three-score  winters'  end  I  died, 
A  cheerless  being,  sole  and  sad, 
The  nuptial  knot  I  never  tied 
And  wish  my  father  never  had. 

COWPER  (After  the  Greek). 


HIS  EPITAPH 

Life  is  a  jest;  and  all  things  show  it, 
I  thought  so  once;  but  now  I  know  it. 

JOHN  GAY. 


THE  ROAD 


I  came  to  a  roadside  dwelling, 
With  great  eaves  low  and  wide, 
Asking  my  way  to  the  village, 
And  they  bade  me  step  inside. 

Welcome  and  cheer  they  gave  me, — 
Were  comrades  loving  and  strong; 
And  they  bade  me  wait  for  supper, 
But  I  could  not  stay  so  long. 

BLISS  CARMAN. 


SEA  FEVER 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the  lonely 

sea  and  the  sky, 
And  all  I  ask  is  a  tall  ship  and  a  star  to  steer 

her  by; 
And  the  wheel's  kick  and  the  wind's  song  and  the 

white  sail's  shaking, 
And   a  grey  mist  on  the  sea's  face,  and  a  grey 

dawn  breaking. 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  for  the  call  of 

the  running  tide 
Is  a  wild  call  and  a  clear  call  that  may  not  be 

denied ; 
And   all    I   ask   is  a   windy  day   with  the  white 

clouds  flying, 
And  the  flung  spray  and  the  blown  spume,  and 

the  sea-gulls  crying. 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the  vagrant 

gypsy  life, 
To  the  gull's  way  and  the  whale's  way  where  the 

wind's  like  a  whetted  knife; 
And  all  I  ask  is  a  merry  yarn  from  a  laughing 

fellow-rover, 
And  quiet  sleep  and  a  sweet  dream  when  the  long 

trick's  over. 

JOHN  MASEFIELD. 

365 


366          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


Upon  the  road  to  Romany 

It's  stay,  friend,  stay ! 
There's  lots  o'  love  and  lots  o'  time 

To  linger  on  the  way; 
Poppies  for  the  twilight, 

Roses  for  the  noon, 
It's  happy  goes  as  lucky  goes 

To  Romany  in  June. 

But  on  the  road  to  Rome — oh 

It's  march,  man,  march! 
The  dust  is  on  the  chariot -wheels, 

The  sere  is  on  the  larch; 
Helmets  and  javelins 

And  bridles  flecked  with  foam, — 
The  flowers  are  dead,  the  world's  ahead 

Upon  the  road  to  Rome. 
. 
But  on  the  road  to  Rome — ah 

It's  fight,  man,  fight! 
Footman  and  horseman 

Treading  left   and   right, 
Camp-fires  and  watch-fires 

Ruddying  the  gloam — 
The  fields  are  grey  and  worn  away 

Along  the  road  to  Rome. 

Upon  the  road  to  Romany 

It's   sing,   boys,   sing! 
Though  rag  and  pack  be  on  our  back 

We'll  whistle  at  the  King. 


ROAD  36? 

Wine  is  in  the  sunshine, 

Madness  in  the  moon, 
And  de'il  may  care  the  road  we  fare 

To  Romany  in  June. 

Along  the  road  to  Rome,  alas! 

The  glorious  dust  is  whirled, 
Strong  hearts  are  fierce  to  see 

The  City  of  the  World; 
Yet  footfall  or  bugle-call 

Or  thunder  as  ye  will, 
Upon  the  road  to  Romany 

The  birds  are  calling  still! 

WALLACE  IBWIN. 


WANDERTHIRST 

Beyond  the  East  the  sunrise,  beyond  the  West  the 

sea, 
And  East  and  West  the  wanderlust  that  will  not 

let  me  be; 
It  works  in  me  like  madness,  dear,  to  bid  me  say 

good-bye ! 
For  the  seas  call  and  the  stars  call,  and  oh,  the  call 

of  the  sky. 

I  know  not  where  the  white  road  runs,  nor  what 

the  blue  hills!  are, 
But  man  can  have  the  sun  for  friend,  and  for  his 

guide  a  star; 


368          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

And  there's  no  end  of  voyaging  when   once  the 

voice  is  heard, 
For  the  river  calls  and  the  road  calls,  and  oh,  the 

call  of  a  bird. 

Yonder  the  long  horizon  lies,  and  there  by  night 

and  day 
The  old  ships  draw  to  home  again,  and  the  young 

ships  sail  away ; 
And  come  I  may,  but  go  I  must,  and  if  men  ask 

you  why, 
You  may  put  the  blame  on  the  stars  and  the  sun 

and  the  white  road  and  the  sky. 

GERALD  GOULD. 


THE  JOYS  OF  THE  ROAD 

Now  the  joys  of  the  road  are  chiefly  these : 
A  crimson  touch  on  the  hard-wood  trees; 

A  vagrant's  morning  wide  and  blue, 

In  early  fall,  when  the  wind  walks,  too : 

A  shadowy  highway  cool  and  brown, 
Alluring  up  and  enticing  down 

From  rippled  water  to  dappled  swamp, 
From  purple  glory  to  scarlet  pomp ; 

* 

The  outward  eye,  the  quiet  will, 

And  the  striding  heart  from  hill  to  hill ; 


THE  ROAD  369 

The  tempter  apple  over  the  fence; 

The  cobweb  bloom  on  the  yellow  quince; 

The  palish  asters  along:  the  wood, — 
A  lyric  touch  of  the  solitude; 

An  open  hand,  an  easy  shoe, 

And  a  hope  to  make  the  day  go  through, — 

Another  to  sleep  with,  and  a  third 
To  wake  me  up  at  the  voice  of  a  bird ; 

The  resonant  far-listening  morn, 
And  the  hoarse  whisper  of  the  corn ; 

The  crickets  mourning  their  comrades  lost, 

In  the  night's  retreat  from  the  gathering  frost; 

(Or  is  it  their  slogan,  plaintive  and  shrill, 
As  they  beat  on  their  corselets,  valiant  still?) 

A  hunger  fit  for  the  kings  of  the  sea, 
And  a  loaf  of  bread  for  Dickon  and  me; 

A  thirst  like  that  of  the  Thirsty  Sword, 
And  a  jug  of  cider  on  the  board; 

An  idle  noon,  a  bubbling  spring, 
The  sea  in  the  pine-tops  murmuring; 

A  scrap  of  gossip  at  the  ferry; 

A  comrade  neither  glum  nor  merry, 

Asking  nothing,  revealing  naught, 

But  minting  his  words  from  a  fund  of  thought, 


370          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

A  keeper  of  silence  eloquent, 
Needy,  yet  royally  well  content. 

Of  the  mettled  breed,  yet  abhorring  strife. 
And  full  of  the  mellow  juice  of  life, 

A  taster  of  wine,  with  an  eye  for  a  maid, 
Never  too  bold,  and  never  afraid, 

Never  heart-whole,  never  heart-sick, 
(These  are  the  things  I  worship  in  Dick) 

No  fidget  and  no  reformer,  just 

A  calm  observer  of  ought  and  must, 

A  lover  t»f  books,  but  a  reader  of  man, 
No  cynic  and  no  charlatan, 

Who  never  defers  and  never  demands, 

But,  smiling,  takes  the  world  in  his  hands, — 

Seeing  it  good  as  when  God  first  saw 
And  gave  it  the  weight  of  his  will  for  law. 

And  0  the  joy  that  is  never  won, 

But  follows  and  follows  the  journeying  sun, 

By  marsh  and  tide,  by  meadow  and  stream, 
A  will-o'-the-wind,  a  light-o'-dream, 

Delusion  afar,  delight  anear, 

From  morrow  to  morrow,  from  year  to  year, 

A  jack-o'-lantern,  a  fairy  fire, 
A  dare,  a  bliss,  and  a  desire! 


THE  ROAD  371 

The  racy  smell  of  the  forest  loam, 

When  the  stealthy,  sad-heart  leaves  go  home; 

(0  leaves,  0  leaves,  I  am  one  with  you, 
Of  the  mould  and  the  sun  and  the  wind  and  the 
dew ! ) 

The  broad,  gold  wake  of  the  afternoon; 
The  silent  fleck  of  the  cold  new  moon;' 

The  sound  of  the  hollow  sea's  release 
From  stormy  tumult  to  starry  peace; 

With  only  another  league  to  wend; 

And  two  brown  arms  at  the  journey's  end! 

These  are  the  joys  of  the  open  road — 
For  him  who  travels  without  a  load. 

BLISS  CARMAN. 


THE  OLD  SONG 

When  all  the  world  is  young,  lad, 

And  all  the  trees  are  green : 
And  every  goose  a  swan,  lad, 

And  every  lass  a  queen; 
Then  hey  for  boot  and  horse,  lad, 

And  round  the  world  away ! 
Young  blood  must  have  its  course,  lad. 

And  every  dog  his  day. 


372          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

When  all  the  world  is  old,  lad, 

And  all  the  trees  are  brown; 
And  all  the  sport  is  stale,  lad, 

And  all  the  wheels  run  down  : 
Creep  home  and  take  your  place  there 

The  spent  and  inaiiu'd  among-; 
God  grant  you  find  one  face  there 

You  loved  when  all  was  young ! 

CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  DREAMER 

I  am  tired  of  planning  and  toiling 

In  the  crowded  hives  of  men ; 
Heart-weary  of  building  and  spoiling, 

And  spoiling  and  building  again, 
And  I  long  for  the  dear  old  river. 

Where  I  dreamed  my  youth  away; 
For  a  dreamer  lives  forever 

And  a  toiler  dies  in  a  day. 

I  am  sick  of  the  showy  seeming 

Of  a  life  that  is  half  a  lie : 
Of  the  faces  lined  with  scheming 

In  the  throng  that  hurries  by. 
From  the  sleepless  thoughts'  endeavour 

I  would  go  where  the  children  play; 
For  a  dreamer  lives  forever, 

And  a  thinker  dies  in  a  day. 

I  can  feel  no  pride,  but  pity 

For  the  burdens  the  rich  endure: 


THE  ROAD  373 

There  is  nothing  sweet  in  the  city 
But  the  patient  lives  of  the  poor. 

Oh !  the  little  hands  too  skilful, 
And  the  child  mind  choked  with  weeds! 

The  daughter's  heart  grown  wilful, 
And  the  father's  heart  that  bleeds! 

No,  no !     From  the  street's  rude  bustle, 

From  trophies  of  mart  and  stage, 
I  would  fly  to  the  wood's  low  rustle 

And  the  meadow's  kindly  page. 
Let  me  dream  as  of  old  by  the  river, 

And  be  loved  for  the  dream  alway; 
For  a  dreamer  lives  forever, 

And  a  toiler  dies  in  a  day. 

JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 


A  MAD  WORLD,  MY  MASTERS! 


"Ha!    Ha!    A   mad  world,  a  mad  world!" 
Mad  Simon  Eyre,  Lord  Mayor  of  London. 


QUINTETTE  FROM  "THE  GONDOLIERS" 

Try  we  life-long,  we  can  never 
Straighten  out  life's  tangled  skein, 

Why  should  we,  in  vain  endeavour, 
Guess  and  guess  and  guess  again? 
Life's  a  pudding  full  of  pluins, 
Care's  a  canker  that  benumbs. 

Wherefore  waste  our  elocution 

On  impossible  solution? 

Life's  a  pleasant  institution, 
Let  us  take  it  as  it  comes! 

Set  aside  the  dull  enigma, 

We  shall  guess  it  all  too  soon; 
Failure  brings  no  kind  of  stigma — 
Dance  we  to  another  tune! 

String  the  lyre  and  fill  the  cup, 
Lest  on  sorrow  we  should  sup. 
Hop  and  skip  to  Fancy's  fiddle, 
Hands  across  and  down  the  middle — 
Life's  perhaps  the  only  riddle 
That  we  shrink  from  giving  up. 

W.  S.  GILBERT. 


377 


378          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


IF 

If  life  were  never  bitter 

And  love  were  always  sweet, 
Then  who  would  care  to  borrow 
A  moral  from  to-morrow, — 
If  Thames  would  always  glitter 

And  joy  would  ne'er  retreat, 
If  life  were  never  bitter, 

And  love  were  always  sweet. 

If  care  were  not  the  waiter 

Behind  a  fellow's  chair, 
When  easy-going  sinners 
Sit  down  to  Richmond  dinners, 
And  life's  swift  stream  flows  straighter — 

By  Jove  it  would  be  rare, 
If  care  were  not  the  waiter 

Behind  a  fellow's  chair. 

If  wit  were  always  radiant, 

And  wine  were  always  iced, 
And  bores  were  kicked  out  straightway 
Through  a  convenient  gateway; 
Then  down  the  years'  long  gradient 

'Twere  sad  to  be  enticed, 
If  wit  were  always  radiant, 

And  wine  were  always  iced. 

MORTIMER  COLLINS. 
("The  Owl.") 


A  MAD  WORLD,  MY  MASTERS!      379 

FROM  THE  RUBAIYAT  OF  OMAR 
KHAYYAM 

XXVI 

Why,  all  the  Saints  and  Sages  who  discuss'd 
Of  the  Two  Worlds  so  wisely — they  are  thrust 
Like   foolish    Prophets    forth;    their   Words   to 

Scorn 
Are  scatter'd,  and  their  Mouths  are  stopp'd  with 

Dust. 

XXVII 

Myself  when,  young  did  eagerly  frequent 
Doctor  and  Saint,  and  heard  great  argument 

About  it  and  about :  but  evermore 
Came  out  by  the  same  door  wherein  I  went. 

xxvni 

With  them  the  seed  of  Wisdom  did  I  sow, 

And  with  mine  own  hand  wrought  to  make  it  grow; 

And  this  was  all  the  Harvest  that  I  reap'd — 
"I  come  like  Water,  and  like  Wind  I  go." 

XXIX 

Into  this  Universe,  and  WTiy  not  knowing 
Nor  Whence,  like  Water  willy-nilly  flowing; 
And  out  of  it,  as  Wind  along  the  Waste, 
I  know  not  Whither,  willy-nilly  blowing. 


380          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

XXX 

What,  without  asking,  hither  hurried  Whence? 
And,  without  asking,   Whither  hurried  hence! 

Oh,  many  a  Cup  of  this  forbidden  Wine 
Must  drown  the  memory  of  that  insolence ! 

XXXI 

Up  from  Earth's  Centre  through  the  Seventh  Gate 
I  rose,  and  on  the  Throne  of  Saturn  sate, 

And  many  a  Knot  unravel'd  by  the  Road; 
But  not  the  Master-knot  of  Human  Fate. 

XXXII 

There  was  the  Door  to  which  I  found  no  Key; 
There  was  the  Veil  through  which  I  might  not  see: 

Some  little  talk  awhile  of  Me  and  Thee 
There  was — and  then  no  more  of  Thee  and  Me. 

XXXIII 

Earth  could  not  answer;  nor  the  Seas  that  mourn 
In  flowing  Purple,  of  their  Lord  forlorn ; 

Nor  rolling  Heaven,  with  all  his  Signs  reveal'd 
And  hidden  by  the  Sleeve  of  Night  and  Morn. 

LXV 

The  Revelations  of  Devout  and  Learn'd 
Who  rose  before  us,  and  as  Prophets  burn'd, 

Are  all  but  Stories,  which,  awoke  from  Sleep 
They  told  their  comrades,  and  to  Sleep  returned. 


A  MAD  WORLD,  MY  MASTERS!      381 


LXVIII 


We  are  no  other  than  a  moving  row 

Of  Magic  Shadow-shapes  that  come  and  go 

Round  with  the  Sun-illumined  Lantern  held 
In  Midnight  by  the  Master  of  the  Show; 


LXIX 


But  helpless  Pieces  of  the  Game  he  plays 
Upon  this  Chequer-board  of  Nights  and  Days; 

Hither  and  thither  moves,  and  checks,  and  slays, 
And  one  by  one  back  in  the  Closet  lays. 


LXX 


The  Ball  no  question  makes  of  Ayes  and  Noes, 
But  Here  or  There  as  strikes  the  Player  goes; 

And  He  that  toss'd  you  down  into  the  Field, 
He  knows  about  it  all — HE  knows — HE  knows! 


LXXI 


The  Moving  Finger  writes ;  and,  having  writ, 
Moves  on :  nor  all  your  Piety  nor  Wit 

Shall  lure  it  back  to  cancel  half  a  Line, 
Nor  all  your  Tears  wash  out  a  Word  of  it. 


LXXII 


And  that  inverted  Bowl  they  call  the  Sky, 
Whereunder  crawling  coop'd  we  live  and  die, 
Lift  not  your  hands  to  It  for  help — for  It 
As  impotent  ly  moves  as  you  or  I. 


382          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

LXXIII 

With  Earth's  first  Clay  They  did  the  Last  Man 

knead, 
And  there  of  the  Last  Harvest  sow'd  the  Seed: 

And  the  first  Morning  of  Creation  wrote 
What  the  Last  Dawn  of  Reckoning  shall  read. 

LXXXII 

As  under  cover  of  departing  Day 
Slunk  hunger-stricken  Ramazan  away, 

Once  more  within  the  Potter's  house  alone 
I  stood,  surrounded  by  the  Shapes  of  Clay. 

LXXXIII 

Shapes  of  all  Sorts  and  Sizes,  great  and  small, 
That  stood  along  the  floor  and  by  the  wall ; 

And  some  loquacious  Vessels  were ;  and  some 
Listen'd  perhaps,  but  never  talk'd  at  all. 

LXXXIV 

Said  one  among  them — "Surely  not  in  vain 
My  substance  of  the  common  Earth  was  ta'en 

And  to  this  Figure  moulded,  to  be  broke, 
Or  trampled  back  to  shapeless  Earth  again." 

LXXXV 

Then  said  a  Second — "Ne'er  a  peevish  Boy 
Would  break  the  Bowl  from  which  he  drank  in  joy ; 

And  He  that  with  his  hand  the  Vessel  made 
Will  surely  not  in  after  Wrath  destroy." 


A  MAD  WORLD,  MY  MASTERS!      383 


LXXXVI 


After  a  momentary  silence  spake 
Some  Vessel  of  a  more  ungainly  Make; 

"They  sneer  at  me  for  leaning  all  awry : 
What!  did  the  Hand  then  of  the  Potter  shake?" 


LXXXVII 


Whereat  some  one  of  the  loquacious  Lot — 
I  think  a  Sufi  pipkin — waxing  hot — 

"All  this  of  Pot  and  Potter— Tell  me,  then, 
Who  is  the  Potter,  pray,  and  who  the  Pot?" 


LXXXVIII 


"Why,"  said  another,  "Some  there  are  who  tell 
Of  one  who  threatens  he  will  toss  to  Hell 

The  luckless  Pots  he  marr'd  in  making — Pish ! 
He's  a  Good  Fellow,  and  'twill  all  be  well  1" 


LXXXIX 

"Well,"  murmured  one,  "let  whoso  make  or  buy, 
My  Clay  with  long  Oblivion  is  gone  dry: 
But  fill  me  with  the  old  familiar  Juice, 
Methinks  I  might  recover  by  and  by." 

xc 

So  while  the  Vessels  one  by  one  were  speaking, 
The  little  Moon  look'd  in  that  all  were  seeking : 
And   then   they   jogg'd   each   other,    "Brother! 

Brother! 
Now  for  the  Porter's  shoulder-knot  a-creaking!" 


384          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

XCVI 

Yet  Ah,  that  Spring  should  vanish  with  the  Rose! 
That    Youth's    sweet-scented    manuscript    should 

close ! 

The  Nightingale  that  in  the  branches  sang, 
Ah  whence,  and  whither  flown  again,  who  knows! 

XCVIII 

Would  but  some  winged  Angel  ere  too  late 
Arrest  the  yet  unfolded  Roll  of  Fate, 

And  make  the  stern  Recorder  otherwise 
Enregister,  or  quite  obliterate ! 

xcix 

Ah  Love!  could  you  and  I  with  Him  conspire 
To  grasp  this  sorry  Scheme  of  Things  entire, 
Would  not  we  shatter  it  to  bits — and  then 
Re-mould  it  nearer  to  the  Heart's  Desire! 

Translation  of  EDWARD  FITZGERALD. 


PLAYS 

Alas,  how  soon  the  hours  are  over 
Counted  us  out  to  play  the  lover! 
And  how  much  narrower  is  the  stage 
Allotted  us  to  play  the  sage! 
But  when  we  play  the  fool,  how  wide 
The  theatre  expands!  beside, 
How  long  the  audience  sit  before  us: 
How  many  prompters,  what  a  chorus! 

WALTER  SAVAGE  LAN  DOR. 


A  MAD  WORLD,  MY  MASTERS!      385 


SOME  HALLUCINATIONS 

He  thought  lie  saw  an  Elephant 

That  practised  on  a  fife; 
He  looked  again  and  found  it  was 

A  letter  from  his  wife. 
"At  length  I  realize,"  he  said, 

"The  bitterness  of  Life." 

He  thought  he  saw  a  Buffalo 

Upon  the  Chimneypiece : 
He  looked  again  and  found  it  was 

His  Sister's  Husband's  Niece. 
"Unless  you  leave  this  house,"  he  said, 

"I'll  send  for  the  Police!" 

He  thought  he  saw  a  Rattlesnake 
That  questioned  him  in  Greek: 

He  looked  again  and  found  it  was 
The  Middle  of  Next  Week. 

"The  one  thing  I  regret,"  he  said, 
"Is  that  it  cannot  speak!" 

He  thought  he  saw  a  Banker's  Clerk 

Descending  from  the  'bus: 
He  looked  again  and  found  it  was 

A  Hippopotamus. 
<4If  this  should  stay  to  dine,"  he  said, 

"There  won't  be  much  for  us." 

"LEWIS  CARROLL." 


386          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


THE  CHAUNT  OF  THE  BRAZEN  HEAD 

I  think,  whatever  mortals  crave, 

With  impotent  endeavour, — 
A  wreath,  a  rank,  a  throne,  a  grave, — 

The  world  goes  round  for  ever; 
I  think  that  life  is  not  too  long; 

And  therefore  I  determine, 
That  many  people  read  a  song 

Who  will  not  read  a  sermon.  .  .  . 

I  think  the  studies  of  the  wise, 

The  hero's  noisy  quarrel, 
The  majesty  of  Woman's  eyes, 

The  poet's  cherished  laurel, 
And  all  that  makes  us  lean  or  fat, 

And  all  that  charms  or  troubles, — 
This  bubble  is  more  bright  than  that, 

But  still  they  are  all  bubbles.  .  .  . 

I  think  that  friars  and  their  hoods, 

Their  doctrines  and  their  maggots, 
Have  lighted  up  too  many  feuds, 

And  far  too  many  faggots: 
I  think,  while  zealots  fast  and  frown, 

And  fight  for  two  or  seven, 
That  there  are  fifty  roads  to  town, 

And  rather  more  to  Heaven.  .  .  . 

I  think  the  Pope  is  on  his  back; 

And,  though  'tis  fun  to  shake  him, 
I  think  the  Devil  not  so  black 

As  many  people  make  him.  .  .  . 


A  MAD  WORLD,  MY  MASTERS!      387 

I  think  that  Love  is  like  a  play, 

Where  tears  and  smiles  are  blended, 
Or  like  a  faithless  April  day, 

Whose  shine  with  shower  is  ended : 
Like  Colnbrook  pavement,  rather  rough, 

Like  trade,  exposed  to  losses, 
And  like  a  Highland  plaid, — all  stuff, 

And  very  full  of  crosses. 

••'••    ••  4i 

I  think  the  world,  though  dark  it  be, 

Has  aye  one  rapturous  pleasure 
ConceaFd  in  life's  monotony, 

For  those  who  seek  the  treasure; 
One  planet  in  a  starless  night, 

One  blossom  on  a  briar, 
One  friend  not  quite  a  hypocrite, 

One  woman  not  a  liar!  .  .i../f, 

I  think  that  some  have  died  of  drought, 
And  some  have  died  of  drinking; 

I  think  that  naught  is  worth  a  thought,— 
And  I'm  a  fool  for  thinking! 

W.  M.  PRAED. 

(Incomplete.) 


Man's  a  poor  deluded  Bubble, 
Wandering  in  a  mist  of  lies; 

Seeing  false  or  seeing  double, 

Who  would  trust  to  such  weak  eyes? 
ROBERT  DODSLEY. 


388          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

REPLY  TO  A  LETTER 

Ah,  vain  regret!  to  few,  perchance, 

Unknown,  and  profitless  to  all; 
The  wisely -gay,  as  years,  advance, 

Are  gaily-wise.     Whate'er  befall, 
We'll  laugh  at  folly,  whether  seen 

Beneath  a  chimney  or  a  steeple; 
At  yours,  at  mine — our  own,  I  mean, 

As  well  as  that  of  other  people. 

They  cannot  be  complete  in  aught 

Who  are  not  humorously  prone, — 
A  man  without  a  merry  thought 

Can  hardly  have  a  funny  bone. 
To  say  I  hate  your  dismal  men 

Might  be  esteemed  a  strong  assertion; 
If  I've  blue  devils  now  and  then, 

I  make  them  dance  for  my  diversion. 

FREDERICK  LOCKER. 
( Incomplete. ) 


THE  WORLD 

This  is  the  best  world  that  we  live  in, 

To  lend,  and  to  spend,  and  to  give  in ; 

But  to  borrow,  to  beg,  or  to  get  a  man's  own, 

It  is  the  worst  world  that  ever  was  known. 

OLDYS'  Collection  of  Epigrams. 


A  MAD  WORLD,  MY  MASTERS!      389 


THE  LITTLE  MAN 

A  little  man  dwelt  in  a  little  town 

A  little  over  twenty  years  ago: 

He  gained  a  little  portion  of  renown 

Within  the  little  crowd  he  used  to  know. 

He  wed  a  little  maid  when  he  was  twenty-one, 

And  later  on  they  had  a  little  son. 

This  little  man  had  little  to  regret 
He  had  but  little  patience  with  the  weak, 
When  others  fell  his  eyes  were  never  wet, 
With  sinners  he  had  but  little  time  to  speak, 
Instead  he  went  to  church  a  little  late, 
And  dropped  a  little  nickel  in  a  little  plate. 

He  drank  a  little  coffee  now  and  then, 
But  little  stronger  liquor  passed  his  lips; 
He  mingled  little  with  Bohemian  men : 
Life's  wine  he  drank  in  stingy  little  sips. 
When  stragglers  came  to  him  for  food  or  bed, 
With  little  pain  he  shook  his  little  head. 


He  made  a  little  fortune  rapidly, 

By  grinding  labour  out  of  little  arms, 

And  by  foreclosing  a  variety 

Of  little  mortgages  on  little  farms. 

He  died — and  'neath  the  weeping  willow  bough 

A  little  worm  is  working  on  him  now. 

Milwaukee  Sentinel. 


THE  LEAN  FELLOW 


"And    though   mine   arm   should   conquer   twenty 

worlds, 
There's  a  lean  fellow  beats  all  conquerors." 

THOMAS  DEKKEB. 


KING  DEATH 

King  Death  was  a  rare  old  fellow! 

He  sat  where  no  sun  could  shine; 
And  he  lifted  his  hand  so  yellow, 

And  poured  out  his  coal  black  wine. 
Hurrah  for  the  coal-black  wine! 

There  came  to  him  many  a  Maiden, 
Whose  eyes  had  forgot  to  shine; 

And  widows,  with  grief  o'er-laden, 
For  a  draught  of  his  sleepy  wine. 
Hurrah  for  the  coal-black  wine! 

The  Scholar  left  all  his  learning; 

The  Poet  his  fancied  woes; 
And  the  Beauty,  her  bloom  returning 

As  the  beads  of  the  black  wine  rose. 
Hurrah  for  the  coal-black  wine! 

All  came  to  the  royal  old  fellow, 

Who  laughed  till  his  eyes  dropped  brine, 
As  he  gave  them  his  hand  so  yellow, 

And  pledged  them  in  Death's  black  wine. 
Hurrah  !     Hurrah  ! 
Hurrah  for  the  coal-black  wine! 

"BARRY  CORNWALL." 
(BRYAN  WALLER  PROCTER.) 
393 


394          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

ON  JOHN  DOVE 
INNKEEPER  OF  MAUCHLINE 

Here  lies  Johnny  Pidgeon; 
What  was  his  religion1? 

Wha  e'er  desires  to  ken, 
To  some  other  warl' 
Maun  follow  the  carl, 

For  here  Johnny  Pidgeon  had  nane! 

Strong  ale  was  ablution — 
Small  beer,  persecution, 

A  dram  was  memento  mori: 
But  a  full  flowing  bowl 
Was  the  saving  his  soul, 

And  port  was  celestial  glory. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


ANACREONTIC 

Born  I  was  to  be  old, 

And  for  to  die  here; 
After  that,  in  the  mould 

Long  for  to  lie  here. 
But  before  that  day  conies, 

Still  I  be  Bousing; 
For  I  know  in  the  Tombs 

There's  no  Carousing. 

ROBERT  HERRICK. 


THE  LEAN  FELLOW  395 

LINES  INSCRIBED  UPON  A  CUP  FORMED 
FROM  A  SKULL 

Start  not — nor  deem  my  spirit  fled: 

In  me  behold  the  only  skull, 
From  which,  unlike  a  living  head, 

Whatever  flows  is  never  dull. 

I  lived,  I  loved,  I  quaffed  like  thee; 

I  died;  let  earth  my  bones  resign; 
Fill  up — thou  canst  not  injure  me; 

The  worm  hath  fouler  lips  than  thine. 

Better  to  hold  the  sparkling  grape, 

Than  nurse  the  earth-worm's  slimy  brood; 

And  circle  in  the  goblet's  shape 

The  drink  of  Gods,  than  reptiles'  food. 

Where  once  my  wit,  perchance,  hath  shone, 

In  aid  of  others'  let  me  shine; 
And  when,  alas !  our  brains  are  gone, 

What  nobler  substitute  than  wine? 

Quaff  while  thou  canst :  another  race, 
When  thou  and  thine,  like  me,  are  sped, 

May  rescue  thee  from  earth's  embrace, 
And  rhyme  and  revel  with  the  dead. 

Why  not?  since  through  life's  little  day 
Our  heads  such  sad  effects  produce; 

Redeemed  from  worms  and  wasting  clay, 
This  chance  is  theirs,  to  be  of  use. 

LORD  BYRON. 


396          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


A  CATCH 

A  Fig  for  care,  why  should  we  spare, 
The  Parish  is  bound  to  find  us, 

For  thou  and  I  and  all  must  die 
And  leave  the  world  behind  us. 

The  Clerk  shall  sing,  the  Bells  shall  ring, 

And  the  Old  Wives  wind  us; 
Sir  John  shall  lay  our  bones  in  clay 

Where  nobody  means  to  find  us. 

Merry  Drollery.     1691. 


When  Father  Time  swings  round  his  scythe, 
Intomb  me  'neath  the  bounteous  vine, 
So  that  its  juices  red  and  blythe, 
May  cheer  these  thirsty  bones  of  mine. 

EUGENE  FIELD. 


Wha  lies  here? 

I,  Johnnie  Dow. 

Hoo,  Johnnie,  is  that  you? 

Ay,  mon,  but  I'm  dead  now. 


THE  LEAN  FELLOW  397 


GEORGE  DENHAM 

Here  lies  the  body  of  Geordie  Denham, 
If  ye  saw  him  now  ye  wadna  ken  him. 


ANACREONTIC  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  SIR 
HARRY  BELLENDINE 

Ye  sons  of  Bacchus,  come  and  join 
In  solemn  dirge,  while  tapers  shine 
Around  the  grape-embossed  shrine 
Of  honest  Harry  Bellendine. 

Pour  the  rich  juice  of  Bordeaux  wine, 
Mixed  with  your  falling  tears  of  brine, 
In  just  libations  o'er  the  shrine 
Of  honest  Harry  Bellendine. 

Your  brows  let  ivy  chaplets  twine, 
While  you  push  round  the  sparkling  wine, 
And  let  your  table  be  the  shrine 
Of  honest  Harry  Bellendine. 

LORD  MIDDLESEX. 


He  went:  the  morning  twinkled  dim; 

I  woke,  and  lay  a  while  abed 
Thinking  what  I  would  say  to  him. 

Then  I  remembered  he  was  dead. 

The  Spectator  (London). 


398          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


FIDELE 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages; 

Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 
Home  art  gone  and  ta'en  thy  wages : 

Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must, 

As  chimney-sweepers  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  the  great, 
Thou  art  past  the  tyrant's  stroke; 

Care  no  more  to  clothe  and  eat ; 
To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak : 

The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must 

All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  lightning-flash, 
Nor  the  all-dreaded  thunderstone ; 

Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash; 
Thou  hast  finished  joy  and  moan : 

All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must 

Consign  to  thee,  and  corne  to  dust. 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


Naught,  I  hear  thee  say, 

Can  fill  the  greedy  eye : 
Yet  a  little  clay 

Will  fill  it  bye-and-bye. 

Persian  Epigram. 


THE  LEAN  FELLOW  399 

A  little  work,  a  little  play 

To  keep  us  going,  and  so — good  day ! 

A  little  warmth,  a  little  light 

Of  love's  bestowing,  and  so — good  night! 

A  little  fun  to  match  the  sorrow 

Of  each  day's  growing,  and  so — good  morrow. 

A  little  trust  that  when  we  die 
We  reap  our  sowing!     And  so — good-bye! 
Old  French  Song.     Du  MAURIER'S  Translation. 


FROM  THE  RUBAIYAT  OF  OMAR 
KHAYYAM 

VIII 

Whether  at  Naishapur  or  Babylon, 
Whether  the  Cup  with  sweet  or  bitter  run, 

The  Wine  of  Life  keeps  oozing  drop  by  drop, 
The  Leaves  of  Life  keep  falling  one  by  one. 


Each  Morn  a  thousand  Roses  brings,  you  say ; 
Yes,  but  where  leaves  the  Rose  of  Yesterday? 
And   this  first   Summer  month  that  brings  the 

Rose 
Shall  take  Jamshyd  and  Kaikobad  away. 


400         THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

xv 

And  those  who  husbanded  the  Golden  grain, 
And  those  who  flung-  it  to  the  winds  like  Rain, 
Alike  to  no  such  aureate  Earth  are  turn'd 
As,  buried  once,  Men  want  dug  up  again. 

XVI 

The  Worldly  Hope  men  set  their  Hearts  upon 
Turns  Ashes — or  it  prospers;  and  anon 

Like  Snow  upon  the  Desert's  dusty  Face, 
Lighting  a  little  hour  or  two — is  gone. 

XVII 

Think,  in  this  batter' d  Caravanserai 
Whose  Portals  are  alternate  Night  and  Day, 
How  Sultan  after  Sultan  with  his  Pomp 
Abode  his  destined  Hour,  and  went  his  way. 

XVIII 

They  say  the  Lion  and  the  Lizard  keep 

The    Courts    where    Jamshyd    gloried    and    drank 

deep : 

And  Bahrain,  that  great  Hunter — the  Wild  Ass 
Stamps  o'er  his  Head,  but  cannot  break  his  Sleep. 

XXII 

For  some  we  loved,  the  loveliest  and  the  best 
That  from  his  Vintage  rolling  Time  hath  pressed, 

Have  drunk  their  Cup  a  Round  or  two  before, 
And  one  by  one  crept  silently  to  rest. 


THE  LEAN  FELLOW  401 


XXIII 


And  we,  that  now  make  merry  in  the  Room 
They  left,  and  Summer  dresses  in  new  bloom, 

Ourselves  must  we  beneath  the  Couch  of  Earth 
Descend — ourselves  to  make  a  Couch — for  whom? 


XXIV 


Ah,  make  the  most  of  what  we  yet  may  spend, 
Before  we  too  into  the  Dust  descend; 

Dust  into  Dust,  and  under  Dust  to  lie, 
Sans  Wine,   sans   Song,   sans   Singer,   and — sans 
End! 


As  then  the  Tulip  for  her  morning  sup 

Of  Heav'nly  Vintage  from  the  soil  looks  up, 

Do  you  devoutly  do  the  like,  till  Heav'n 
To  Earth  invert  you — like  an  empty  Cup. 


Perplext  no  more  with  Human  or  Divine, 
To-morrow's  tangle  to  the  winds  resign, 
And  lose  your  fingers  in  the  tresses  of 
The  Cypress-slender  Minister  of  Wine. 

XLII 

And  if  the  Wine  you  drink,  the  Lip  you  press, 
End  in  what  All  begins  and  ends  in — Yes; 

Think    then    you    are    TO-DAY    what    YESTER- 
DAY 
You  were — TO-MORROW  you  shall  not  be  less. 


•102          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


XLIII 

So  when  that  Angel  of  the  darker  Drink 
At  last  shall  find  you  by  the  river-brink, 

And,  offering  his  Cup,  invite  your  Soul 
Forth  to  your  lips  to  quaff — you  shall  not  shrink. 

XLIV 

Why,  if  the  Soul  can  fling  the  Dust  aside, 
And  naked  on  the  Air  of  Heaven  ride, 

Were't  not  a  Shame — were't  not  a   Shame  for 

him 
In  this  clay  carcass  crippled  to  abide? 

XLV 

"Tis  but  a  Tent  where  takes  his  one  day's  rest 
A  Sultan  to  the  realm  of  Death  addrest ; 

The  Sultan  rises,  and  the  dark  Ferrash 
Strikes,  and  prepares  it  for  another  Guest. 

XLVI 

And  fear  not  lest  Existence  closing  your 
Account  and  mine,  should  know  the  like  no  more; 

The  Eternal  Saki  from  that  Bowl  has  poured 
Millions  of  Bubbles  like  us,  and  will  pour. 

XL  VII 

When  You  and  I  behind  the  Veil  are  past, 

Oh,  but  the  long,  long  while  the  World  shall  last, 

Which  of  our  Coming  and  Departure  heeds 
As  the  Sea's  self  should  heed  a  pebble-cast. 


THE  LEAN  FELLOW  403 


XLVIII 


A  Moment's  Halt — a  momentary  taste 

Of  BEING  from  the  Well  amid  the  Waste — 

And  Lo ! — the  phantom  Caravan  has  reached 
The  NOTHING  it  set  out  from — Oh,  make  haste! 


LXIII 


Oh,  threats  of  Hell  and  Hopes  of  Paradise ! 
One  thing  at  least  is  certain — This  Life  flies; 

One  thing  is  certain  and  the  rest  is  Lies; 
The  Flower  that  once  has  blown  for  ever  dies. 


LXIV 


Strange,  is  it  not  ?  that  of  the  myriads  who 
Before  us  passed  the  door  of  Darkness  through, 

Not  one  returns  to  tell  us  of  the  Road, 
Which  to  discover  we  must  travel  too. 


xci 


Ah,  with  the  Grape  my  fading  life  provide, 
And  wash  the  Body  whence  the  Life  has  died, 

And  lay  me,  shrouded  in  the  living  Leaf, 
By  some  not  unfrequented  Garden-side. 


xcn 


That  ev'n  my  buiied  Ashes  such  a  snare 
Of  Vintage  shall  fling  up  into  the  Air, 

As  not  a  True-believer  passing  by 
But  shall  be  overtaken  unaware. 


404         THE  STAG'S  HORXBOOK 


Yon  rising  Moon  that  looks  for  us  again 

How  oft  hereafter  shall  she  wax  and  wane; 

How  oft  hereafter  rising  look  for  us 
Through  this  same  Garden — and  for  one  in  vain ! 

Ci 

And  when,  like  her,  Oh  Saki,  you  shall  pass 
Among  the  Guests  Star-scatter'd  on  the  Grass, 

And  in  your  joyous  errand  reach  the  spot 
Where  I  made  One — turn  down  an  empty  Glass. 
Translation  of  EDWARD  FITZGERALD. 


This  lesson  oft  in  life  I  sing, 
And  from  my  grave  I  still  shall  cry, 
Drink,  mortal,  drink,  while  time  is  young, 
Ere  death  has  made  thee  old  as  I. 

THOMAS  MOORE. 


BIBO  AND  CHARON 

When  Bibo  thought  fit  from  the  world  to  retreat, 
As  full  of  champagne  as  an  egg's  full  of  meat, 
He  wak'd  in  the  boat ;  and  to  Charon  he  said, 
He  would  be  row'd  back,  for  he  was  not*  yet  dead. 
Trim  the  boat,  and  sit  quiet,  stern  Charon  replied: 
You  may  have  forgot,  you  were  drunk  when  you 
died. 

MATTHEW  PRIOR. 


THE  LEAN  FELLOW  405 


ON  A  FOOL 

Here  lies  the  Earl  of  Suffolk's  fool, 

Men  called  him  DICKY  PEARCE; 
His  folly  served  to  make  folks  laugh, 

When  wit  and  mirth  were  scarce. 
Poor  Dick,  alas !  is  dead  and  gone — 

What  signifies  to  cry ! 
Dickys  enough  are  still  behind, 

To  laugh  at  by-and-by. 

(Berkeley  Churchyard.) 


SMITH  OF  MAUDLIN 

My  chums  will  burn  their  Indian  weeds 

The  very  night  I  pass  away, 
And,  cloud-propelling,  puff  and  puff 

As  white  the  thin  smoke  melts  away; 
Then  Jones  of  Wadham,  eyes  half-closed, 

Rubbing  the  ten  hairs  on  his  chin, 
Will  say,  "This  very  pipe  I  use 

Was  poor  old  Smith's  of  Maudlin." 

That  night  in  High  Street  there  will  walk 

The  ruffling  gownsmen  three  abreast, 
The  stiff-necked  proctors,  wary-eyed, 

The  dons,  the  coaches,  and  the  rest: 
Sly  "Cherub  Sims"  will  then  propose 

Billiards,  or  some  sweet  ivory  sin; 
Tom  cries,  "He  played  a  pretty  game — 

Did  honest  Smith  of  Maudlin." 


406          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

The  boats  are  out! — the  arrowy  rush, 

The  mad  bull's  jerk,  the  tiger's  strength; 
The  Balliol  men  have  wopped  the  Queen's — 

Hurrah ! — but  only  by  a  length. 
Dig  on,  ye  muffs,  ye  cripples,  dig! 

Pull  blind,  till  crimson  sweats  the  skin! 
The  man  who  bobs  and  steers  cries,  "Oh, 

For  plucky  Smith  of  Maudlin." 

Wine  parties  met — a  noisy  night ; 

Red  sparks  are  breaking  through  the  cloud; 
The  man  who  won  the  silver  cup 

Is  in  the  chair  erect  and  proud. 
Three  are  asleep — one  to  himself 

Sings,  "Yellow  jacket's  sure  to  win." 
A  silence : — "Men,  the  memory 

Of  poor  old  Smith  of  Maudlin !" 

The  boxing  rooms:     With  solemn  air 

A  freshman  dons  the  swollen  glove; 
With  slicing  strokes  the  lapping  sticks 

Work  out  a  rubber — three  and  love; 
With  rasping  jar  the  padded  man 

Whips  Thompson's  foil  so  square  and  thin, 
And  cries,  "Why,  zur,  you've  not  the  wrist 

Of  Muster  Smith  of  Maudlin." 

But  all  this  time  beneath  the  sheet 
I  shall  lie  still  and  free  from  pain, 

Hearing  the  bed-makers  sluff  in 
To  gossip  round  the  blinded  pane; 

Try  on  my  rings,,  sniff  up  my  scent, 
Feel  in  my  pockets  for  my  tin : 


THE  LEAN  FELLOW  407 

While  one  hag  says,  "We  all  must  die, 
Just  like  this  Smith  of  Maudlin." 

Ah!     Then  a  dreadful  hush  will  come, 

And  all  I  hear  will  be  the  fly 
Buzzing  impatient  round  the  wall, 

And  on  the  sheet  where  I  must  lie; 
Next  day  a  jostling  of  feet — 

The  men  who  bring  the  coffin  in : — 
"This  is  the  door — the  third  pair  back — 

Here's  Mr.  Smith  of  Maudlin." 

GEORGE  WALTER  THORNBURY. 


HIS  WINDING-SHEET 

Come  thou,  who  art  the  Wine  and  wit 

Of  all  I've  writ : 
The  Grace,  the  Glory,  and  the  best 

Piece  of  the  rest. 
Thou  art  of  what  I  did  intend 

The  All  and  End. 
And  what  was  made,  was  made  to  meet 

Thee,  thee  my  sheet. 
Come  then,  and  be  to  my  chaste  side 

Both  Bed  and  Bride. 
We  two  (as  Relics  left)  will  have 

One  Rest,  one  Grave. 
And,  hugging  close,  we  will  not  fear 

Lust  entering  here: 
Where  all  Desires  are  dead,  or  cold 

As  is  the  mould : 


408          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

And  all  Affections  are  forgot, 

Or  trouble  not. 
Here,  here  the  Slaves  and  Prisoners  be 

From  Shackles  free : 
And  Weeping  Widows  long  oppressed 

Do  here  find  rest. 
The  wronged  Client  ends  his  Laws 

Here,  and  his  Cause. 
Here  those  long  suits  of  Chancery  lie 

Quiet,  or  die: 
And  all  Star-chamber-Bills  do  cease, 

Or  hold  their  peace. 
Here  needs  no  Court  for  our  Request, 

Where  all  are  best; 
All  wise;  all  equal;  and  all  just 

Alike  i'  th'  dust. 
Nor  need  we  here  to  fear  the  frown 

Of  Court,  or  Crown. 
Where  Fortune  bears  no  sway  o'er  things, 

There  all  are  Kings. 
In  this  securer  place  we'll  keep, 

As  lulled  asleep; 
Or  for  a  little  time  we'll  lie, 

As  Robes  laid  by; 
To  be.  another  day  re-worn, 

Turned,  but  not  torn: 
Or  like  old  Testaments  ingrost, 

Lock'd  up,  not  lost: 
And  for  a  while  lie  here  conceal'd; 

To  be  reveal'd 
Next,  at  that  great  Platonic  year, 

And  then  meet  here. 

ROBERT  HERRICK. 


THE  LEAN  FELLOW  409 


EPITAPH 

Hie  jacet  John  Shorthose 
Sine  hose,  sine  shoes,  sine  breeches, 
Qui  fuit  dum  vixit,  sine  goods, 
Sine  lands,  sine  riches. 


IN  MEMORIAM:     TAMMY  MESSER 

Here  lies  the  banes  of  Tammy  Messer, 
Of  tarry  woo'  he  was  a  dresser; 
He  had  some  faults  and  mony  merits 
And  died  of  drinking  ardent  spirits. 


EPITAPH 

After  Reading  Ronsard's 
Lines  from  Rabelais. 

If  fruits  are  fed  on  any  beast 
Let  vine-roots  suck  this  parish  priest, 
For  while  he  lived,  no  summer  sun 
Went  up  but  he'd  a  bottle  done, 
And  in  the  starlight  beer  and  stout 
Kept  his  waistcoat  bulging  out. 

Then  Death  that  changes  happy  things 
Damned  his  soul  to  water  springs. 

JOHN  MILLINGTON  SYNGE. 


410          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


Awhile  with  joy  the  scene  is  crown'd, 
Awhile  the  catch  and  toast  go  round; 
And  when  the  full  carouse  is  o'er, 
Death  puffs  the  lights  and  shuts  the  door. 
THOMAS  BLACKLOCK. 


ARMSTRONG'S  GOODNIGHT 

This  night  is  my  departing  night; 

For  here  nae  langer  must  I  stay ! 
There's  neither  friend,  nor  foe,  o'  mine, 

But  wishes  me  away. 

What  I  have  done  thro'  lack  of  wit 

I  never,  never  can  recall! 
I  hope  ye're  a'  my  friends  as  yet; 

Good  Night!  and  joy  be  with  you  all! 

THOMAS  ARMSTRONG. 


A  MISCELLANY 


"The  time  has  come/'  the  Walrus  said, 
"To  talk  of  many  things." 


TEACUP  BRINDISI 

Eat,  drink  and  be  gay, 

Banish  all  worry  and  sorrow; 
Laugh  gaily  to-day, 

Weep,  if  you're  sorry,  to-morrow! 
Come,  pass  the  cup  round — 

I  will  go  bail  for  the  liquor; 
It's  strong,  I'll  be  bound, 

For  it  was  brewed  by  the  vicar! 


Chorus 

None  so  knowing  as  he 
At  brewing  a  jorum  of  tea, 

Ha!     Ha! 
A  pretty  stiff  jorum  of  tea! 


Pain,  trouble,  and  care, 

Misery,  heart-ache  and  worry, 
Quick,  out  of  your  lair! 

Get  you  all  gone  in  a  hurry ! 
Toil,  sorrow,  and  plot, 

Fly  away  quicker  and  quicker- 
Three  spoons  to  the  pot — 

That  is  the  brew  of  your  vicar! 

413 


414         THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


Chorus 

None  so  cunning  as  he  • 

At  brewing  a  jorum  of  tea, 

Ha!     Ha! 
A  pretty  stiff  jorum  of  tea! 

W.  S.  GILBERT. 
("The  Sorcerer.") 


Here's  to  the  four  hinges  of  Friendship — 
Swearing,  Lying,  Stealing  and  Drinking. 
When  you  swear,  swear  by  your  country; 
When  you  lie,  lie  for  a  pretty  woman, 
When  you  steal,  steal  away  from  bad  company, 
And  when  you  drink,  drink  with  me. 

WINE 

I  love  Wine!     Bold  bright  Wine! 
That  biddeth  the  manly  Spirit  shine ! 

Others  may  care 

For  water  fare; 
But  give  me — Wine! 

Ancient  Wine!     Brave  old  Wine! 
How  it  around  the  heart  doth  twine! 

Poets  may  love 

The  stars  above; 
But  I  love — Wine. 


A  MISCELLANY  415 

.  Nought  but  Wine !     Noble  Wine, 
Strong,  and  sound,  and  old,  and  fine. 
What  can  scare 
The  Devil  Despair 
Like  brave  bright  Wine? 

0  brave  Wine!     Rare  old  Wine! 
Once  thou  wast-  deemed  a  God  divine ! 

Bad  are  the  rhymes 

And  bad  the  times, 
That  scorn  old  Wine. 

So,  brave  Wine !     Dear  old  Wine ! 
Morning,  noon,  and  night  I'm  thine! 
Whatever  may  be, 
I'll  stand  by  thee, 
Immortal  Wine! 

"BARRY   CORNWALL." 
(BRYAN  WALLER  PROCTER.) 


CHAMPAGNE  ROSEE 

Lily  on  liquid  roses  floating — 

So  floats  yon  foam  o'er  pink  champagne: 
Fain  would  I  join  such  pleasant  boating, 

And  prove  that  ruby  main, 
And  float  away  on  wine! 

Those  seas  are  dangerous  (greybeards  swear) 
Whose  sea-beach  is  the  goblet's  brim; 

And  true  it  is  they  drown  Old  Care — 
But  what  care  we  for  him, 
So  we  but  float  on  wine? 


416          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

And  true  it  is  they  cross  in  pain 
Who  sober  cross  the  Stygian  ferry: 

But  only  make  our  Styx  champagne, 
And  we  shall  cross  right  merry, 
Floating  away  on  wine! 

Old  Charon's  self  shall  make  him  mellow, 

Then  gaily  row  his  boat  from  shore; 
While  we  and  every  jovial  fellow, 
Hear  unconcern'd  the  oar 
That  dips  itself  in  wine ! 

JOHN  KENYON. 


NOW  I'M  RESOLVED  TO  LOVE  NO  MORE 

Now  I'm  resolved  to  love  no  more, 

But  sleep  by  night,  and  drink  by  day; 

Your  coyness,  Chloris,  pray  give  o'er, 
And  turn  your  tempting  eyes  away. 

From  ladies  I'll  withdraw  my  heart, 

And  fix  it  only  on  the  quart. 

I'll  place  no  happiness  of  mine 

A  puling  beauty  still  to  court, 
And  say  she's  glorious  and  divine, 

The  vintner  makes  the  better  sport; 
And  when  I  say,  my  dear,  my  heart, 
I  only  mean  it  to  the  quart. 

Love  has  no  more  prerogative 

To  make  me  desperate  courses  take, 

Nor  me  t'  an  hermitage  shall  drive, 
I'll  all  my  vow  to  th'  goblet  make; 


A  MISCELLANY  417 


And  if  I  wear  a  capuchoone, 
It  shall  a  tankard  be  or  none. 


'Tis  wine  alone  that  cheers  the  soul, 
But  love  and  ladies  make  us  sad; 

I'm  merry  when  I  court  the  bowl, 

While  he  that  courts  the  madam's  mad: 

Then  ladies,  wonder  not  at  me, 

For  you  are  coy,  but  wine  is  free. 

ALEXANDER  BROME. 


THREE  TIMES  THREE 

In  his  last  binn  Sir  Peter  lies, 

Who  knew  not  what  it  was  to  frown : 
Death  took  him  mellow,  by  surprise, 

And  in  his  cellar  stopped  him  down. 
Thro'  all  our  land  we  could  not  boast 

A  knight  more  gay,  more  prompt  than  he, 
To  rise  and  fill  a  bumper  toast, 

And  pass  it  round  with  three  times  three. 

None  better  knew  the  feast  to  sway, 

Or  keep  mirth's  boat  in  better  trim ; 
For  nature  had  but  little  clay 

Like  that  of  which  she  moulded  him. 
The  meanest  guest  that  graced  his  board 

Was  there  the  freest  of  the  free, 
His  bumper  toast  when  Peter  poured, 

And  passed  it  round  with  three  times  three. 


418         THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

He  kept  at  true  good  humour's  mark 

The  social  flow  of  pleasure's  tide ; 
He  never  made  a  brow  look  dark, 

Nor  caused  a  tear,  but  when  he  died. 
No  sorrow  round  his  tomb  should  dwell : 

More  pleased  his  gay  old  ghost  would  be, 
For  funeral  song  and  passing  bell, 

To  hear  no  sound  but  three  times  three. 

THOMAS  LOVE  PEACOCK. 


Once  a  Frenchman  who'd  promptly  said  "Oui' 
To  some  ladies  who'd  asked  him  if  houi 

Cared  to  drink,  threw  a  fit 

Upon  finding  that  it 
Was  a  tipple  no  stronger  than  toui. 


CONCERNING  I  AND  NON-I 

Now  brim  your  glass  and  plant  it  well 

Beneath  your  nose  on  the  table, 
And  you  will  find  what  philosophers  tell 
Of  I  and  non-I  is  no  fable. 
Now  listen  to  wisdom,  my  son ! 
Myself  am  the  subject, 
This  wine  is  the  object ; 
These  things  are  two ; 
But  I'll  prove  to  you 
That  subject  and  object  are  one. 


A  MISCELLANY  419 

I  take  this  glass  in  my  hand,  and  stand 

Upon  my  legs,  ii'  I  can, 
And  look  and  smile,  benign  and  bland, 
And  feel  that  I  am  a  man. 
Now  stretch  all  the  strength  of  your  brains ! 
I  drink — and  the  object 
Is  lost  in  the  subject; 
Making  one  entity 
In  the  identity 
Of  me  and  the  wine  in  my  veins ! 

JOHN  STUART  BLACKIE. 


Let  wine,  gay  comrades,  be  the  food  we're  fed 

upon;— 

Our  amber  cheeks  its  ruby  light  to  shed  upon ! 
Wash  us  in't,  when  we  die ;  and  let  the  trees 
Of  our  vineyards  yield  the  bier  that  we  lie  dead 

upon! 


DANGERS 

If  from  "man's  vile  arts  I  flee 
And  at  the  pump  drink  water  free, 
Observe  what  happens  unto  me! 

I  gulp  down  infusoriaB 
And  quarts  of  raw  bacteria 
And  hideous  rotatoriae 
And  wriggling  polygastricaB 
And  slimy  diatomaoeae 


420          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

And  hard-shelled  ophryocercinae 

And  double-barrelled  colpodse, 

Non-loricated  amboedas, 

And  assorted  animalcula, 

Of  middle,  high,  and  low  degree. 

For  when  it  comes  to  adulteration 
Of  every  sort  and  kind  and  station 
Dame  Nature  just  beats  all  creation. 

ANONYMOUS. 


Saint  Patrick  was  a  gentleman, 
Who  through  strategy  and  stealth, 
Drove  all  the  snakes  from  Ireland- 
Here's  a  bumper  to  his  health. 
But  not  too  many  bumpers, 
Lest  we  lose  ourselves,  and  then 
Forget  the  good  Saint  Patrick 
And  see  the  snakes  again. 


NEW  YEAR'S  RESOLUTIONS 

'Twas  but  a  month  ago  to-day, 

'Twixt  the  old  year  and  the  new, 
I  laid  my  pipe  and  pouch  away, 

No  more  to  smoke  or  chew; 
To  round  my  resolutions  fair, 

And  from  all  vices  sever, 
I  vowed  I  never  more  would  swear, 

Not  even  hardlv  ever. 


A  MISCELLANY  421 

I  felt  so  lonesome-like,  anon, 

While  pining  for  a  smoke, 
That,  brooding  all  my  grief  upon, 

An  oath  was  almost  spoke; 
An  oath!     When  I  had  just  forsworn 

All  words  that  vicious  be! 
Nay,  rather  than  be  tempted  more, 

Return,  0  pipe,  to  me ! 

And  pondering  on  the  habit  vile 

That  threatened  moral  ruin, 
I  drifted  with  a  bitter  smile 

Back  to  my  pouch  and  chewin'; 
So,  of  my  resolutions,  two 

Have  vanished  in  the  air, 
The  third  shall  stick  my  lifetime  through, 

For, me,  I'll  not  swear. 

EUGENE  FIELD. 


John  Adams  lies  here,  of  the  parish  of  Southwell, 
A  carrier  who  carried  his  can  to  his  mouth  well; 
He  carried  so  much,  and  he  carried  so  fast, 
He  could  carry  no  more — so  was  carried  at  last; 
For  the  liquor  he  drank,  being  too  much  for  one, 
He  could  not  carry  off — so  he's  now  carrion. 

LORD  BYRON. 


422          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


Dear  Jack,  this  white  mug  that  with  Guinness  I 

fill, 

And  drink  to  the  health  of  Sweet  Nan  of  the  Hill, 
Was  once  Tommy  Tosspot's,  as  jovial  a  sot 
As  e'er  drew  a  spigot,  or  drain'd  a  full  pot — 
In  drinking  all  round  'twas  his  joy  to  surpass, 
And  with  all  merry  tipplers  he  swigged  off  his 

glass. 

One  morning  in  summer,  while  seated  so  snug, 
In  the  porch  of  his  garden,  discussing  his  jug, 
Stern  Death,  on  a  sudden,  to  Tom  did  appear, 
And  said,  "Honest  Thomas,  come  take  your  last 

bier." 

We  kneaded  his  clay  in  the  shape  of  this  can, 
From  which  let  us  drink  to  the  health  of  my  Nan. 
WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 


WITH  A  PAIR  OF  DRINKING-GLASSES 

Fair  empress  of  the  poet's  soul, 

And  queen  of  poetesses, 
Clarinda,  take  this  little  boon, 

This  humble  pair  of  glasses. 

And  fill  them  high  with  generous  juice, 

As  generous  as  your  mind; 
And  pledge  me  in  this  generous  toast : 

"The  whole  of  human  kind !" 


A  MISCELLANY  423 

"To  those  who  love  us!" — second  fill; 

But  not  to  those  whom  we  love, 
Lest  we  love  those  who  love  not  us. 

A  third:     "To  thee  and  me,  love!" 

Long  may  we  live !  long  may  we  love ! 

And  long  may  we  be  happy ! 
And  may  we  never  want  a  glass 

Well  charged  with  generous  nappy! 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


FRAGMENT  OF  OLDE  STUFFE 

Oh,  heavy  clouds  have  hid  the  mellow  sun 

Full   hopelessly ; 

The  tired  year's  creaking  course  is  all  but  run, 
The  were-wolf  howl  of  chill  blasts  has  begun; 
Life's  joy  doth  vanish  (when  the  summer's  done)- 

Full  hopelessly. 


So  deem  not  me  as  wicked,  wild,  or  rude 

( — Full  hopelessly — ) 
If  guides  me  on  this  melancholy  mood, 
I  barter  cash  for  what  some  imp  has  brewed, 
And,    sprawling,    by    my    hearth-fire,    get    quite 
stewed — 

Full : — hopelessly. 

JAMES  A.  BRILL. 


424         THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 


EPITAPH 

Beneath  these  stones  repose  the  bones 

Of  Theodosius  Grim : 
He  took  his  beer  from  year  to  year, 

And  then  the  bier  took  him. 


BEER 

A  man  to  whom  illness  was  chronic, 
When  told  that  he  needed  a  tonic, 
Said,  "Oh,  Doctor,  dear, 
Won't  yon  please  make  it  beer?" 
"No,  no,"'  said  the  Doc,  ''that's  Teutonic." 


A  rheumatic  old  man  of  White  Plains, 
Who  will  never  stay  in  when  it  rains, 
Has  a  home  full  of  drugs, 
Kept  in  little  brown  jugs — 
That's  all  that  he  gets  for  Jiis  pains. 


TAKE  WARNING  FROM  THIS 

Here  lies,  cut  down  like  unripe  fruit, 
The  wife  of  Deacon  Amos  Shut  e : 
She  died  of  drinking  too  much  coffee, 
Anny  Doininy  eighteen  forty. 

(From  a  tombstone  in  Connecticut.) 


A  MISCELLANY  425 

When  Maids  live  to  thirty,  yet  never  repented ; 

When  all  Europe's  at  peace,  and  all  England  con- 
tented ; 

When   no   Gamester  will  swear,   and  no   bribery 
thrives ; 

Young  wives  love  old  husbands,  young  husbands, 
old  wives; 

When    Landlords    love    taxes,    and    Soldiers    love 
peace ; 

And  Lawyers  forget  a  rich  client  to  fleece; 

When  an  old  face  shall  please  as  well  as  a  new; 
WTives,  Husbands,  and  Lovers  will  ever  be  true! 

When   Bullies   leave   huffing,   and   Cowards   their 

trembling ; 

And  Courtiers,  and  Women,  and  Priests,  their  dis- 
sembling ; 
When,  these  shall  do  nothing  against  what  they 

teach, 

Pluralities  hate ;  and  we  mind  what  they  preach ; 
When  Vintners  leave  brewing,  to  draw  the  wine 

pure ; 
And  Quacks,  by  their  medicines,  kill  less  than  they 

cure ; 

When  an  old  face  shall  please  as  well  as  a  new; 
Wives,  Husbands,  and  Lovers  will  ever  be  true. 

GEORGE  POWELL. 


To-day  we'll  haste  to  quaff  our  wine, 
As  if  to-morrow  ne'er  should  shine; 
But  if  to-morrow  comes,  why  then — 
We'll  haste  to  quaff  our  wine  again. 


426          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

The  Frenchman  loves  his  native  wine, 

The  German  loves  his  beer, 
The  Englishman  his  'art'  and  'arf 

Because  it  brings  good  cheer; 
The  Scotchman  loves  his  whiskey  straight, 

Because  it  brings  on  dizziness; 
The  American  has  no  choice  at  all — 

He  drinks  the  whole  damned  business. 


Here's  to  turkey  when  you  are  hungry, 
Champagne  when  you  are  dry, 

A  pretty  girl  when  you  need  her, 
And  heaven  when  you  die. 


Here's  to  the  girl  I  love, 

I  wish  that  she  were  nigh ; 
If  drinking  beer  would  bring  her  here, 

I'd  drink  the  damn  place  dry. 


Wash  me  when  dead  in  the  juice  of  the  vine,  dear 
friends ! 

Let  your  funfcral  service  be  drinking  and  wine, 
dear  friends ! 

And  if  you  would  meet  me  again  when  the  Dooms- 
day comes, 

Search  the  dust  of  the  tavern,  and  sift  from  it 
mine,  dear  friends! 


A  MISCELLANY  427 

'  "A  wet  night  maketh  a  dry  morning," 
Quoth  Hendyng,  "rede  ye  right; 
And  the  cure  most  fair  is  the  self-same- hair 
Of  the  dog  that  gave  the  bite."  ' 

PUNDERSON. 


A  NAVAL  TOAST 

To  our  noble  commander, 
To  his  honour  and  wealth: 
May  he  drown  and  be  damned 
That  refuses  the  health ! 

From  an  Old  Naval  Ballad. 


He  is  not  drunk  who,  from  the  floor, 
Can  rise  again  and  drink  some  more; 
But  he  is  drunk  who  prostrate  lies, 
And  cannot  drink  or  cannot  rise. 

EUGENE  FIELD. 


He  that  drinks  is  immortal 
For  wine  still  supplies 
"What  age  wears  away; 
How  can  he  be  dust 
That  moistens  bis  clay? 

H.   PURCELL. 


428          THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

I'll  feast  you  with  my  rhymes  no  more, 
When  once  I  cease  to  tipple; 

Whene'er  you  bar  the  cellar  door, 
My  Muse  becomes  a  cripple. 

HUGH  CROMPTON. 


Oh !  carve  me  yet  another  slice, 

0  help  me  to  more  gravy  still, 
There's  naught  so  sure  as  something  ijice 

To  conquer  care,  or  grief  to  kill. 

I  always  loved  a  bit  of  beef, 

When  Youth  and  Bliss  and  Hope  were  mine; 
And  now  it  gives  my  heart  relief 

In  sorrow's  darksome  hour — to  dine ! 

Punch. 


Here's  to  those  who  love  ns, 
And  here's  to  those  who  don't, 
A  smile  for  those  who  are  willing  to, 
And  a  tear  for  those  who  won't. 


Here  is  a  riddle  most  abstruse : 
Canst  read  the  answer  right? 
Why  is  it  that  my  tongue  grows  loose 
Only  when  I  grow  tight? 


A  MISCELLANY  429 


CHAMPAGNE 

Here's  to  champagne,  the  drink  divine, 
That  makes  us  forget  our  troubles ; 

It's  made  of  a  dollar's  worth  of  wine 
And  three  dollar^'  worth  of  bubbles. 


Come,  my  old  friend,  and  take  a  pot, 

But  mark  now  what  I  say : 
Whilst  thou  drinkest  thy  neighbour's  health, 

Drink  not  thy  own  away. 


THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  AND"  THE  MORNING 
AFTER 

A  gilded  mirror,  a  polished  bar — 

A  million  of  glasses,  straws  in  a  jar: 

A  kind-faced  young  man,  all  dressed  in  white — 

That's  my  recollection  of  last  Night ! 

The  streets  were  dingy,  and  far  too  long, 
Gutters  sloppy,  policemen  strong: 
A  slamming  of  doors  in  a  sea-going  hack — 
That's  my  recollection  of  getting  back ! 

The  stairs  were  narrow  and  hard  to  climb, 
So  I  rested  often,  I  had  lots  of  time : 


430         THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

An  awkward  key-hole,  a  mis-placed  chair — 
Told  the  folks  plainly  that  I  was  there : 

A  heated  interior,  a  revolving  bed, 
A  sea-sick  man  with  an  awful  head: 
Whiskey,  beer,  gin,  booze  galore, 
Was  introduced  to  the  cuspidor: 

And  with  morning  came  bags  of  ice 

So  very  essential  to  this  life  of  vice; 

And  when  with  these  I  had  cooled  my  throbbing 

brain, 
Did  I  swear  off  and  quit  ?    No,  I  got  soused  again ! 


Drink  to  fair  woman,  who,  I  think, 

Is  most  entitled  to  it, 
For  if  anytluug  ever  can  drive  me  to  drink, 

She  certainly  could  do  it. 

"B.  JABEZ  JENKINS." 

IS  IT  REALLY  WORTH  WHILE? 

Sometimes,  Old  Pal,  in  the  morning 

When  the  dawn  is  cold  and  grey, 

And  I  lie  in  the  perfumed  feathers, 

Thinkin'  thoughts  I  dare  not  say — 

Then  I  think  of  the  stunts  of  the  night  before 

And  I  smile  with  a  feeble  smile — 

And  say  to  myself  for  the  hundredth  time, 

"Is  it  really  worth  the  while?" 


A  MISCELLANY  431 

Then  I  pick  up  the  morning  paper 

And  I  see  where  some  saintly  man, 

Who  never  was  "soused"  in  all  his  life — 

Who  never  said  "hell"  nor  "damn," — 

Who  never  stayed  up  till  the  wee  small  hours, 

Nor  jollied  a  gay  soubrette, 

But  preached  on  the  evils  of  drinkin', 

The  cards  and  the  cigarette: — 

"Cut  off  in  the  prime  of  a  useful  life," 
The  headlines  glibly  say, — 
Or,  "Snatched  by  the  Grim  Reaper  Death, 
"He  has  crossed  the  Great  Highway!" 
They  bury  him  deep  and  a  few  friends  weep, 
And  the  world  moves  on  with  a  sigh, 
And  the  saintly  man  is  forgotten  soon — 
Even  as  you  and  I ! 

Then  I  say  to  myself,  "Well,  Bill,  Old  Scout, 

When  you  come  to  take  the  jump — 

When  you  reach  the  place  where  the  best  and  the 

worst 

Must  bump  the  Eternal  Bump : — 
You  can  smile  to  yourself  and  chuckle, 
Though  the  path  be  exceedingly  hot — 
While  you  were  on  earth  you  were  going  some, 
Now  is  that  an  unholy  thought? 

Then  I  arise  and  attach  a  cracked-ice-band 

To  the  crown  of  my  battered  hat, 

And  saunter  forth  for  a  cold  gin-fizz — 

She's  a  great  old  world  at  that ! — 

And  I  go  on  my  way  rejoicing, 


432         THE  STAG'S  HORNBOOK 

What's  the  use  to  sob  or  sigh? 

''Go  the  route,  Old  Scout,  and  be  merry — 

For  to-morrow  you  may  die !" 

ANONYMOUS. 


Here's  to  the  girl  who  is  mine — all  mine. 
She  drinks  and  she  bets,  and  she  smokes  cigarettes, 
And  sometimes,  I  am  told,  she  goes  out  and  forgets 
— That  she's  mine — all  mine ! 


THE  END 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


This  index  is  to  the  complete  poems  in  the  volume, 
and  does  not  include  any  of  the  numerous  little  fillers, 
epigrams,  extracts,  and  epitaphs  which  are  sprinkled 
throughout  the  hook. 

Untitled  poems  I  have  included  in  the  title-list 
tinder  their  first  lines,  considered  as  titles. 

PAGE 

Ade,   George    66 

Ainsworth,   W.   H 56,   100 

Aldrich,  Henry 27 

Aldrk-h,  T.  B 324 

Armstrong,   Thomas    410 

Arnold,   George    » 58,  162,  342 

Aytoun,  W.  E 126,  184,  241 

Barham,  R.  II 1 38 

Barker,   Bernard    294 

Belloc,    Hilaire    19,  148 

Birdseye,  George    222 

Blackie,  J.  S , 418 

Breitmann,  Hans,  pseudonym,  see  Leland,  C.  G. 

Bridges,  Robert    99 

Brill,  J.  A 423 

Brome,   Alexander    416 

Brooks,  Shirley    344 

Browne,    William    215 

Bunner,  H.  C 356 

Burgess,   Gelett    172 

Burns,  Robert,  7,  34,  35,  37,  38,   133,  171,  173,  175, 
194,  234,  241,  394,  422 

Butler,  Samuel  171 

Byron,  G    G.  N 106,  109,  174  302,  395,  421 

Calverley,  C.  S 189,  219,  220,  281 

Campbell,    Thomas    114 

Carey,  Henry   79 

Carman,   Blisa    343,  363,  368 

"Carroll,  Lewis"    385 

433 


434  INDEX* 

Cats,  Jacob  829 

Chaucer,   Geoffrey    353 

Chesterton,  G.  K 70,  72,  140 

Cleveland,  John   267 

Clough,  A.  IT 341 

Coleridge,  S.  T 252 

Collins,  Mortimer    378 

Cornwall,  Barry,  pseudonym,  see  Procter,  B.  W. 

Dckker,  Thomas    " 257,  264 

Dobson,   Austin    346 

Duffield,   S.   W 279 

D'Urfey,  Tom   211 

Elliot,   T.   H 324 

Field,  Eugene   86,  94,  106,   176,  420 

Fielding,  Henry   314 

Fit/gerald,  Edward,...    119,   165,  215,  343,  379,  399 

Fletcher,   John    263,  264 

Gale,  N.  R 85 

Gay,  John    192,  223,  250,  251,  360 

Goldsmith,  Oliver    69 

Gilbert,  W.  S.,  159,  181,  204,  205,  206,  239,  354,  377, 
413 

Gormley,  J.  J 296 

Gould,  'Gerald    367 

Grant,   William    275 

Gundry,  A.  W 321 

Hardy,  Thomas  47,  224 

Hay,    John    353 

Henderson,   D 125 

Henley,  W.  E 65,  193,  215,  327,  342 

Herford,   Oliver    100,  128,  196 

Herrick,  Robert,  124,  203,  217,  222,  247,  267,  394,  407 

Holmes,   0.    W 112 

Hood,    Thomas     223,  316,  355 

Hovey,    Richard    20,  135,  143,   145,  147,  151 

Howard,  Hugh   54 

Hunt,  Leigh   129,  202 

Irwin,  Wallace   235,  287,  366 

Jenks,   Tudor    22 

Johnson,  Samuel    276 

Jordan,  Thomas 23,  261 


INDEX  435 

Kenyon,  John  415 

King,  Ben U7,  360 

Kingsley,   Charles    '. 371 

Kipling,  Rudyard   43,  91,  236,  283 

Kiser,  S.   E 240 

Lamb,    Charles    179,  333 

Landor,  W    S 225,  220,  384 

Learned,    \Yalter    201,  360 

Le  Gallienne,  Richard   123,  294 

Leigh,  II.  S 74,  289,  291 

Leland,   C.   G 117,  304 

Lemon,  Mark    52 

Lever,   Charles    41,  42,  90,  148,  157 

Linton,  \\.  G 116,  349 

Locker,    Frederick    221,  388 

Lowell,  J.  R 321 

Lummis,   C.   F 298,  318 

Mackenzie,   W.  A 300 

Maginn,   William    104,  170 

Marble,  Oliver    105 

Martin,  E.  S ' 345,  359 

Marzials,  Theo 282 

Maseiield,  John   28,  365 

Matthews,    Brander    307,  308 

Meller,   H.   J 283 

Middlesex,   Lord    397 

Millikin,  R.  A 164 

Moore,  Thomas,  97,  112,  114,  122,  176,  186,  188,  216, 
227,  404 

Morris,  G.  P 253 

Miihler,   R.  von    68 

Murger,  Henri    195 

Murray,  R.  F 295 

Neaves,  George   25,  88 

O'Kcefe,  John   160,   171,  345 

Omar  Khayyam    119,  123,   165,  215,  379,  399 

Oldys,   William    101 

O'Reilly,  J.   B 372 

Peacock,  T.   L 64,   155,  417 

Pennell,  Cholmondcley    139 

Phillips,    Stephen 204 


436  INDEX 

Powell,    George    425 

Praed,  W.  M 210,  386 

Prior,  Matthew   .  .* 227,  404 

Procter,  Bryan  Waller 62,  168,   169,  393,  414 

Rabelais,  Francois  118 

Rice,    Wallace    101-,  102,  290 

Rossetti,  D.  G 197 

Rogers,  R.  C 207 

Rowlands,  Samuel   287 

Saxe,  J.  G 209,  234,  238 

Shakespeare,  William    163,  233,  262,  398 

Sheridan,  R.  B 126,  161,  192 

Sill,  E.  R 115 

Sprague,  Charles   310 

Stedman,  E.  C 63 

Stephens,  G.  A 277 

Stevenson,  R.  L 142 

Still,   John    32 

Stoddard,  R.  H 115 

Suckling,    John    49 

Swain,    Charles    ." 205 

Swift,    Jonathan 200 

Synge,   J.   M 409 

Taylor,  B.  L 8 

Terry,  Daniel   156 

Thackeray,  W.  M.,  50,   133,   134,   143,   150,   158,   183, 
347,  422 

Thomson,    James    313,  339 

Thornbury,  G.  W 405 

Villon,  Francois    166,  197 

Webb,  C.  H 60 

Willis,  N.   P 191 

Wilson,   John    83 

Wither,   George    199 

Wolcot,  John    27-6 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


PAGE 

A  Outrance 207 

The  Age  of  Wisdom   50 

All  in  the  Downs 355 

All's  Well  that  Ends  Well 214 

Anacreontic 394 

Anacreontic  on  the  Death  of  Sir  Harry  Bellen- 

dine    397 

"And  Life  Is  Like  a  Pipe"    282 

The  Apparition    204 

Armstrong's  Goodnight    410 

Auld  Lang  Syne 173 

A   Bacchanalian    Song    62 

Bacchus  Must  Now  His  Power  Resign    79 

A  Bachelor's  Invocation 320 

Back  and  Side  Go  Bar,  Go  Bare 32 

A  Ballad  of  Bedlam 211 

Ballad  of  Dead  Ladies  197 

Ballad  of  Good  Doctrine  to  Those  of  111  Life   .    166 

A  Ballade  of  Tobacco 307 

A  Ballade  of  the  Best  Pipe 295 

The  Bards  We   Quote 8 

Barney  McGee 151 

Beer    58 

Behold  the  Deeds    356 

The  Betrothed    283 

Bibo  and  Charon   404 

The  Bottle  and  the  Bird 94 

Brandy  and  Soda 54 

Breitmann's  Rauchlied  304 

A  Bumper  of  Good  Liquor   161 

Captain    Stratton's    Fancy    28 

Care  Drowned    275 

A  Catch  on  Tobacco    301 

A    Catch    Royal    261 

437 


438  INDEX 

Champagne  Ros6e * 415 

The  Chaunt  of  the  Brazen  Head  386 

The  Cigar  316 

The  Clink  of  the  Ice  86 

Come,  Landlord  30 

Come,  Thou  Monarch  of  the  Vine  262 

Commanders  of  the  Faithful 158 

Comrades,  Pour  the  Wine  To-night  145 

Companions  189 

Compleynte  to  His  Purse  353 

Concerning  I  and  Non-I  418 

Concerning  Sisters-in-Law  243 

Connubial  Company 236 

Coronemus  nos  Rosis  antequam  marcescant  ....  23 

Courtship  and  Matrimony  245 

A  Credo  134 

The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth  348 

Crown  Winter  with  Green 99 

The  Cry  of  the  Dreamer  372 

Damaris'  Song:  When  Kings  by  Their  Huffing  251 

Dangers  419 

Day  and  Night  115 

Dear  Jack  422 

Defendant's  Song:  Oh,  Gentlemen,  Listen,  I 

Pray  204 

Defendant's  Song:  When  First  My  Old,  Old 

Love  I  Knew  206 

Do  Nothing  but  Eat  and  Make  Good  Cheer .  . .  262 

Down  Among  the  Dead  Men  .' 272 

Drink  of  This  Cup  97 

The  Drinker's  Commandments  102 

A  Drinking  Song 85 

A  Drinking  Song  169 

Drinking  Song  of  Munich  114 

Ducat's  Song:  He  that  Weds  a  Beauty  250 

Dum  Vivimus,  Vigilamus 60 

The  Empty  Bottle  126 

Epitaph:  after  reading  Ronsard's  lines  from 

Rabelais 409 

Epitaph  for  James  Smith  34 

An  Epitaph:  While  life  was  mine,  the  little  hour  112 


INDEX  439 

Epitah  on  a  Hen-pecked  Squire  •.  . .  241 

Falstaff's  Song  63 

The  Family  Man 238 

Farewell,  My  Mistress!  I'll  Be  Gone  217 

A  Farewell  to  Tobacco 333 

Farewell  to  Tom  Moore 174 

Feast  on  Wine  or  Fast  on  Water  72 

Fidele  398 

Fidus  Achates  300 

Fill  a  Glass  with  Golden  Wine 215 

Fill  the  Goblet  Again !  109 

Fragment  of  Olde  Stuffe 423 

The  Friars'  Chorus  161 

Friar's  Song:  I  am  a,  friar  of  orders  gray  ..  345 
Friar's  Song:  Some  love  the  matin-chimes, 

which  tell  347 

From  Romany  to  Rome 366 

Fuit  Ilium  359 

A  General  Toast  192 

A  Gentle  Echo  on  W'oman  200 

The  Ghosts  155 

A  glass  is  good  and  a  lass  is  good  160 

Gluggity  Glug  149 

God  Lya^us,  Ever  Young 264 

God  Made  Man 128 

Good  and  Bad  Luck  353 

A  Grain  of  Salt 235 

Green  Grow  the  Rashes,  O !  194 

Gude  E'en  to  You,  Kimmer !  35 

Hacker's  Song:  Woman's  like  the  flatt'ring 

ocean  192 

Had  I  the  Tun  which  Bacchus  Used  164 

Hanover  Winter-Song  • 147 

Hey,  Ca'  Thro'  133 

The  Hindoo's  Death  222 

The  Honest  Fellow  271 

His  Winding-Sheet  407 

I  Come  from  Castlepatrick  14C 

I  Came  to  a  Roadside  Dwelling 363 

"I'd  trust  my  husband  anywhere,"  she  said  ....  240 

I  Like  the  New  Friends  Best  177 


440  INDEX 

"I  Said  to  Love"    224 

If 378 

If  I  Should  Die  360 

If  I  were  King    65 

If  on  My  Theme  I  Rightly  Think   27 

If  Sorrow,  the  Tyrant,  Invade  the  Breast 269 

I'm  Very   Fond  of  Water    25 

In    Japan 115 

In  Praise  of  Tobacco 288 

The  Indian  Weed 330 

Inishowen    104 

Inscription  for  Tobacco-jars   314 

Inter  Sodales   327 

Invocation     118 

Is  It  Really  Worth-While?    430 

Isabel    220 

The  Jack  of  Spades  and  the  Queen  of  Clubs  ....  197 

Jenny  Kissed   Me    202 

Johnnie  Dow's  Epitaph   396 

The  Jolly  Beggars  171 

Jolly  Nose    100 

The  Jolly  Toper    77 

The  Joys  of  the  Road   368 

The  Kavanagh    20 

"Keats  Took  Snuff"   306 

King   Death    393 

King's  Song:     You  Grow  up  and  you  discover  . .  239 

The  Ladies    . 43 

Landlady,  Count  the  Lawin'    37 

Larry  O'Toole    133 

The  Last  Lamp  of  the  Alley 170 

Latakia    324 

The  Lay  of  the  -Lover's  Friend   184 

Lines  Inscribed  Upon  a  Cup  Formed  from  a  Skull  395 

Lines  Suggested  by  the  Fourteenth  of  February  219 

The  Little  Man    / 389 

Love  and  Tobacco   193 

Love  in  a  Cottage  191 

Maecenas  Bids  His  Friend  to  Dine  315 

The    Manly    Heart    199 

Meerschaum    .                         328 


INDEX  441 

Mickey  Tree's  Song:  It's  little  for  glory  I  care  42 
Mickey  Tree's  Song:  Oh,  once  we  were  illigint 

people  157 

Mickey  Free's  Song:  Whan  an  illcgant  life  a 

friar  leads  148 

A  Mile  an'  a  Bittock  142 

A  Morality  342 

My  After-Dinner  Cloud  289 

My  Cigar  321 

My  Cigarette  318 

My  Last  Cigar  283 

My  Meerschaums  298 

My  Old  Complaint  (Its  Cause  and  Cure)  .....  56 

My  Three  Loves  291 

My  Wife's  Cousin  241 

Mynheer  Van  Dunck  124 

Next  Morning  139 

New  Year's  Eve 162 

New  Year's  Resolutions  420 

The  Night  Before  and  the  Morning  After  429 

Not  a  Sou  Had  He  Got, — Not  a  Guinea  or  Note  138 

Now  God  Be  with  Old  Simeon  258 

Now  I'm  Resolved  to  Love  No  More  416 

La  Nuit  Blanche  91 

O  Good  Ale,  Thou  Art  My  Darling  39 

Ode  for  a  Social  Meeting 112 

Ode  to  My  Cigar  310 

An  Old  Bachelor  22 

The  Old  Reprobate's  Song 105 

Ode  to  Tobacco  281 

Of  all  the  birds  that  ever  1  see  257 

Old  Loves  195 

Old  Noah 70 

Old  Noah's  Invention  88 

Old  Pipe  of  Mine 296 

Old  Ralph  Ransome's  Honeydew  292 

Old  Rose  261 

Old  Simon  the  King 258 

Old  Song  343 

The  Old  Song 371 

Old  Time  and  I  .  52 


442  m  INDEX 

On  a  Broken  Pipe 313 

On  a  Carrier  Who  Died  of  Drunkenness 421 

On  a  Fly  Drinking  Out  of  His  Cup  101 

On  a  Rejected  Nosegay    213 

On  a  Tobacco-Jar   294 

On  Being  Advised  to  Marry   228 

On  John  Doe,  Innkeeper  of  Mauchline  394 

On  Receipt  of  a  Rare  Pipe  331 

The  One  White  Hair 225 

The  Oriental  Way 249 

Palinodia     210 

A  Partie  Carree 168 

The  Philosophy  of  Smoke   312 

Pictures  in  Smoke 324 

A  Pipe  of  Tobacco   303 

A  Pipe  of  Tobacco  314 

Plantation  Drinking  Song    125 

Plays    384 

The  Port  of  Refuge 68 

Potteen,  Good  Luck  to  Ye,  Dear 41 

The  Prime  of  Life   201 

Princeton    Toast    127 

Procul  Xegotiis    345 

Quintette  from  "The  Gondoliers":     Try  we  life- 
long, we  can  never 377 

The  Rabbinical  Origin  of  Women   216 

R-e-m  o-r-s-e    66 

Reply  to  a  Letter    388 

Resignation     188 

The  Retort 253 

Rosette     218 

Rosy  Wine 116 

A   Round    265 

The  Rubfiiyat  of  Omar  KhayySm 

110,  123,   165,  215,  379,  399 

The  Ruined  Maid 47 

A  Rule  of  Three 101 

St.  George's,  Hanover  Square 221 

"Scorn  Not  the  Meerschaum"    287 

Sea   Fever    365 

The  Second  Three  Men's  Song  264 


INDEX  443 

Sir  Toby Ill 

Sixteen     226 

Smith  of  Maudlin  405 

Smoke 308 

Smoke  Is  the  Food  of  Lovers- 329 

The  Smoker's  Calendar    326 

The    Snakes 106 

Some   Hallucinations    385 

Song  of  a  Fallen  Angel  Over  a  Bowl  of  Rum- 
Punch     83 

Song  of  Dragons :     We've  been  thrown  over,  we're 

aware    181 

Song     of     Tamorras :     Time     there     was     when 

earthly  joy    159 

The  Song  of  the  Humbugged  Husband   248 

Song:     Drink  to-day;  and  drown  all  sorrow!    .  .  263 

Song:     He  that 'will  not  merry  merry  be 273 

Song :     In  spite  of  love  at  length  I've  found  .  . .  268 

Song :     Some  say  women  are  like  the  sea 46 

Sorrows  of  Werther 183 

Spectator  ab  extra 341 

Stanzas  to  an  Intoxicated  Fly 74 

A  Stein  Song 143 

The  Story  of  Uriah    ; 236 

Sussex  Drinking  Song 19 

The    Swallows    126 

Sweet  Smoaking  Pipe 326 

The  Tale  of  Lord  Lovell   136 

Teacup    Brindisi    413 

A    Thanksgiving    343 

Thetis'  Song:     Man's  so  touchy,  a  word  that's 

injurious    ..-...- ...... 223 

Three   Men  of  Gotham    64 

The  Three  Pigeons    69 

Three  Times  Three   417 

The  Three  Wives  234 

The  Time  I've  Lost  in  Wooing   186 

To  a  Rich  Young  Widow  213 

To  Critics   360 

To  My  Nose   307 

To  Phoebe 205 


444  INDEX 

To  Richard  Watson  Gilder    346 

To  the  Terrestrial  Globe   354 

"To  the  Woman  that's  Good"   181 

A  Toast  135 

A  Toast  to  Tobacco  Smoke    290 

Todlen  Butt  and  Todlen  Ben   40 

The  Toper   211 

The  Toper's  Petition  274 

Toss  the  pot,  toss  the  pot,  let  us  be  merry 270 

A   True    Maid    227 

Under  the  Greenwood  Tree  163 

Upon   Himself    217 

Upon  Love,  by  Way  of  Question  and  Answer  .  . .  203 

Wanderthirst    367 

Wassail  Song   75 

We  Be  Soldiers  Three 360 

Wein  Geist 117 

Well,   Why   Not?    159 

When  Daisies  Pied  and  Violets  Blue   233 

Whistle  O'er  the  Lave  O't 234 

Why  So  Pale  and  Wan  ?   49 

Willie  Brewed  a  Peck  o'  Maut    38 

The  Winds  Whistle  Cold    156 

Wine    414 

Who  Dares  Talk  of  Hours?   276 

A  Winter  Evening  Hymn  to  My  Fire   321 

With  a  Pair  of  Drinking  Glasses  422 

With  Pipe  and  Book   294 

Woman's  Will    209 

Would  You  Be  a  Man  of  Fashion?   172 

You  Say  at  Your  Feet  I  Wept  in  Despair  188 

Youth  and  Age 342 


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